


offbeat's destiel drabble collection (2020 edition)

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Series: offbeat's destiel drabbles :) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, One Shot, look there's a lot of EVERYTHING in here but it's all really fluffy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 21,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: a collection of various drabbles that I've posted to my Tumblr but they don't really fit any of my other drabble collections. there's a little bit of everything in here, but it's all deancas themed. tags updated as more is added :)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: offbeat's destiel drabbles :) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089983
Comments: 30
Kudos: 80





	1. Cold

**Author's Note:**

> my Tumblr is one-more-offbeat-anthem, if y'all care :) https://one-more-offbeat-anthem.tumblr.com

“what’s up with the bag?” sam asked, “I thought you went to the grocery store yesterday.”

“uh…yeah,” dean said awkwardly, “I just, uh, forgot something. Had to go back.”

“well, I can put it away for you, I’m headed to the kitchen.”

“no, no, that’s fine, I can do it!” dean said, “I need to put the keys away before I forget, anyways.”

sam didn’t press the issue, but stared after his brother as he walked down the hall. dean was obviously hiding something–but what?

*****

“hey, buddy?” dean knocked on cas’s door, “you in there?”

“yes,” came the muffled reply. dean pushed the door open and found cas sitting on the bed, wrapped in blankets and reading a book.

“how’re the chills?”

cas shrugged, which was hard to see through the layers, “I’m alright, I guess. still cold.”

“well, I got something that might help.” dean sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a sweatshirt out of the bag, “stopped by the thrift store. it’s not the nicest, but it’ll hopefully help keep you warm, and–”

before he could finish his sentence, he was pushed backwards by an armful of (former) angel. 

“thank you, dean,” cas said, pressing his face into dean’s chest. 

“of course.”


	2. One Call Away

Castiel Novak hates his job. 

Every day, he answers return calls for Costco. He gets to customers after they’ve been screened for what they want, he goes, “This is Castiel with Costco, you pressed three for returns. How may I help you?” and then people yell at him for about fifteen minutes. Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Today is no different. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair–he gets off in less than two hours, and then he can go back to his apartment and finish the historical drama he’s reading right now. He fiddles with the buttons on the cuffs of his dress shirt–all of the other guys wear polos, but Castiel’s soul mark hasn’t vanished yet, and it’s a bit, well, vulgar.

Everyone’s got soul marks until they speak to their soulmate, on the inside of their wrist–the first words your soulmate will say to you. His friends had things like “Can I get that door for you?” or “Nice weather, huh?” or “Oh, you like Nirvana, too?” 

Castiel’s is _very_ different.

It’s “Oh thank FUCK!” with the _fuck_ capitalized, as if the person is grateful for whatever’s happening. 

But still.

He finishes up a frustrating call with a woman who can’t understand why the apples she _already ate_ can’t be returned, and then his phone immediately rings again, and he answers it dully, “This is Castiel with Costco, you pressed three for returns. How may I help you?”

It sounds like the person on the other end of the line drops something, and then the voice says, “ _Oh thank FUCK!”_

Castiel registers a couple of things at once. First, it sounds like a guy, and a guy with a really nice voice, at that. Second– _he pulls up his sleeve to make sure–_ this guy is his soulmate?

He tunes into the fact that the guy is still talking, “Jesus Christ, I thought I’d never find you.”

“D-do you actually have a return?” Castiel asked, “Or have you just been calling people nonstop to see if I’d answer?”

“I do actually have a return, Castiel. Can I call you Cas? It just seems better. Anyways, I–”

“What’s your name?” Cas interrupts him.

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Casti-Cas Novak.”

“Dude, I love your name. It’s amazing. I’d love it even if you weren’t my soulmate.” Dean clears his throat, “So, you’re not gonna believe this….but I accidentally ordered 200 ten-pound buckets of flour.”

“ _You did what_?!” Cas nearly drops the phone, “How?”

“That is an excellent question. So, do you think you can help me figure out how to return them? Also, do you actually live in Oklahoma City? It had me input my zipcode–”

“…Why is that important?”

“Because I’m about to ask you not only to help me get rid of 2,000 goddamn pounds of flour, but also go to on a date with me.” He can hear in Dean’s voice that he’s grinning.

Cas can’t help it–he’s grinning too. “Fine,” he says, “I do live in Oklahoma City. And I will go on a date with you, as long as you only return 1,990 pounds of that flour. Do you like to bake?”

“I suppose?”

“I could make you a pie.”

“Holy shit, you really _are_ my soulmate,” Dean says, “Yeah, I think I can keep one bucket of flour.”


	3. Power

“S’not so bad,” Dean said, “The storm. Right?”

Cas opened his mouth to reply, but right as he did so, the power went out with a pop, and a gargantuan crack of thunder followed.

“Well,” Dean said into the darkness, “I take that back. I’ll go find us some flashlights–shit!” 

“Are you okay?” Cas’s voice came from somewhere to the left of Dean.

“M’fine. Just walked into the doorframe, I’ll– _shit!_ Did it again. I’ll be back.”

After wandering through the unfamiliar hallways of their new house, a place they had moved into only two days prior, Dean eventually found the living room and blindly dug through a few boxes until he found a flashlight.

When he got back to his and Cas’s room, Cas wasn’t where he had left him, leaning against the wall by the dresser. Instead, in the dim glow of the flashlight’s beam, he could see Cas now in his pajamas, curled up on the bed, Dean’s side of the comforter flipped out.

“I was thinking,” Cas said, “That we could take a break on unpacking and just go to bed early.”

“Of course you think that _after_ I run into a million things, asshole,” Dean replied, but it wasn’t too much of a hardship, he thought later, when he was drifting off to sleep with the rain still pounding overhead, lightning occasionally flashing through the curtains. He was warm and safe, under the comforter (covered in sunflowers–Cas had _insisted_ and Dean had pretended to be annoyed), tucked up against Cas. He ghosted his lips over Cas’s forehead and then shut his eyes. 

Dean Winchester was content. 


	4. Zeal

_“we’re gonna wake sam up,” dean said, “these motel walls ain’t exactly soundproof.”_

_cas paused for just a moment, his lips brushing dean’s as he whispered, “and?”_

_dean’s brief moment of reflection felt like it was the combination of split second decisions (ones that had led to him pressing cas against the back of the motel room door about ten minutes ago and kissing him until staying upright wasn’t an option anymore) and years of unresolved tensions, of words unsaid, of truncated goodbyes._

_and here was a chance to keep going._

_there was an aching in his chest, an exacerbated heat below, and a swirling cocktail of emotions in his gut. desire, want, zeal, hunger–but also, unmistakably, love._

_dean leaned into cas, catching his mouth with his own, “sam’ll have to deal with it, i guess.”_


	5. Wrecked

Cas was taking an awfully long time in the shower. 

(Not that Dean paid attention to Cas’s shower habits. But if he did, he would have noticed that Cas has been in there for a while.) 

After ten more minutes, Dean walked to the bathroom door, raised a fist to rap on it. “Cas? You okay?”

There was a muffled, “I’m fine!” that Dean didn’t believe for one instant, but he went back to the library anyways, picking back up the thick tome on ancient exorcisms or some shit that Sam was forcing him to read for case research. 

After thirty minutes (or fifty years, Dean was unclear), his attention was pulled away from the book by shuffling footsteps. 

Cas looked, well, not good. His eyes were dull, his expression stuck in a permanent frown, and he certainly hadn’t been getting enough sleep. As he watched Cas walk in and sit in the armchair by him, Dean noticed how wrecked and thin he looked, in a sweatshirt they had found at a thrift store and a pair of Dean’s old pajama pants. 

Being human was rough on Cas.

After a few moments, Dean breached the silence, “You want some lunch, buddy?”

Cas shrugged.

“C’mon,” Dean stood up, “I should be taking a break now, too. I’ve been reading so long, I think I’m going cross-eyed.” 

“Hm.”

Dean stopped in front of Cas’s chair, “Cas, get up.”

Cas looked up at him reproachfully.

“Okay, you asked for it.” Dean leaned down, slipping his hands under Cas’s armpits and hauling him up before pulling him in tight for a hug. Cas resisted for a moment, but then nearly melted into Dean. 

They stood like that for a few minutes, and then Cas said softly into Dean’s shoulder, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Dean pulled back, examining Cas, “But you definitely need more food. No complaints. You’re eating lunch.” 


	6. cicadas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of the folktober prompt list for October :)

As it turns out, the weather in the South doesn’t let up just because the calendar says October.

They’ve learned this the hard way, now covered in sweat after digging up a grave to do a typical salt-n-burn, even though it’s one in the morning.

Dean flops across the front seat of the Impala, spreading his legs out and unbuttoning his shirt, “Fuck. It’s _hot_.”

“The humidity makes it worse,” Cas says helpfully, “So it’s almost as if we’re being boiled.” He himself had ditched his trench coat an hour ago, and is now pulling off his suit coat and tie.

Dean turns to get a good look at a practically naked Cas, blurting out, “The cicadas are awfully loud.”

Cas sighs, “Cicadas have an organ called a tymbal that contains a series of ribs that buckle one after the other when the cicada flexes its muscles. Every time a rib buckles, a clicking noise is made.”

“Weird.”

“No weirder than digging up someone’s coffin to light it on fire.”

“You know what?” Dean turns the keys in the ignition and instantly cranks the AC up.

“What, Dean?” A pause, and then Cas adds, “You didn’t have a response, did you?”

“No comment.” 


	7. if they look at us one more fucking time....

“Dean, the scarecrows aren't moving.”

Dean wasn’t listening to Cas, though. Instead, he was pacing around the one section of the corn maze they’d gotten themselves trapped in, muttering under his breath.

A gust of wind blew, and one of the scarecrows shifted slightly, a ragged sleeve fluttering in the wind. Dean whirled around, “I swear to god, if they look at us one more fucking time-!”

“Dean!” Cas reached out, placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “They’re only scarecrows. You’re just upset that we’re lost.”

“We’re not _lost_.”

“Okay,” Cas said, “Then how do we get out?”

“I don’t know.” Dean frowned and sat on the ground.

“....Are you pouting?”

Dean looked up at him, “No. I’m just taking a break.”

“Right.” Cas sighed at Dean, “Okay. I’ll take a break with you.”

******

“Dean!” 

Dean was jolted into consciousness by Cas pushing him to the side. He looked up and there was--

_What the hell_? 

Dressed in the garb of the scarecrows was a group of three vampires. 

Immediately, Dean leapt into action, drawing his gun out of his belt. Before he could get a shot out, though, Cas had made quick work of the vamps, and they lay in a heap in front of him.

“So,” Dean said smugly, “Just scarecrows, huh?”

“You know,” Cas tucked his angel blade back into his sleeve, “A thank you would have sufficed.” 

“I’ll thank you once you get us out of this godforsaken maze.”

Cas fixed him with a withering stare, “You got us here.”

“And?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll get us out.”


	8. jesus fuck, it bit me!

“Jesus fuck!” Dean shook his hand irritably, “It bit me!”

“Dean,” Cas sighed, “It’s not an it, it’s a _child_.”

“Well, this _child_ bit me.”

Cas rolled his eyes. He could snap back at his boyfriend that _he_ was being a child, but Dean was already grumpy enough about being conscripted into babysitting for one of Cas’s work friends while said friends went to a Halloween party.

“Did he draw blood?” Cas said, in the long-suffering voice of someone who was a kindergarten teacher apparently both at work and at home, “Because otherwise, it’s fine. He’s teething, Anna told me so.”

“Well that’s lame.”

“Dean, you were once a baby. _You_ teethed.”

Dean switched his hold on the baby to the other arm, bouncing him slightly, “And?”

“And it’s a normal part of child development.”

Just as Dean opened his mouth to shoot back a retort, the baby started wailing, and Cas rushed to the kitchen to heat up a bottle of milk.

If he was being honest, this wasn’t his ideal Halloween, either. He would much rather have been back at his and Dean’s apartment, sort of watching _Hocus Pocus_ for the umpteenth time (Dean claimed not to like it--he was lying) and sort of making out. Or at Dean’s brother Sam’s house, making Halloween cookies and teasing Sam about his new girlfriend. 

When the bottle was heated up, he made his way back into the living room, where the crying had ceased, and what he saw made him stop short.

Dean was sitting on the couch, with the now-quiet baby in his arms, and he was whispering softly as he patted the baby’s back. He looked calm, and peaceful, and...

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad way to spend Halloween, after all.


	9. acorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of the folktober prompt list for October :)

“Okay, Dean, give it to me straight,” Sam said, leafing through one of their lore books as he stood in front of his brother, “What’s wrong?”

“Curse: a prayer or invocation for harm or injury to come upon one,” Dean replied, followed by an emphatic, “Fuck: to deal with unfairly or harshly!”

Cas sighed, “He’s been like this ever since we got away from that witch. I’m pretty sure he’s been cursed to only speak in definitions.”

“Yes: used as a function word to express assent or agreement.” Dean nodded as he spoke.

“Well, this is gonna get old really fast,” Sam said, “Kinda wish she had cursed him to just not be able to speak.”

Dean opened his mouth, but before he could get another definition out, Cas clamped a hand over his mouth, saying, “Let’s go on a walk, Dean, leave Sam alone so he can figure this out.”

Dean pried Cas’s hand off of his mouth, “Ugh: used to indicate the sound of a cough or grunt or to express disgust or horror.” But he stood up and followed Cas out of the library, up the stairs, and out of the bunker. 

“I will say,” Cas commented as they walked, the crisp fall air slightly biting, “It is amusing to hear you curse with definitions.”

Dean glared at him, but didn’t reply. 

The silence was comfortable as they walked. Dean kept kicking acorns out of the way irritably, into the dirt off of the side of the road.

“What did the acorns ever do to you?” Cas asked.

Dean shrugged, replying after a moment, “Frustrated: feeling discouragement, anger, and annoyance because of unresolved problems or unfulfilled goals, desires, or needs.”

“I understand.”

When they got back to the bunker, Sam was waiting for them. “I figured it out,” he said, “It’s a really simple counter spell.”

Dean simply nodded, not wanting to spout out another definition, but he looked pleased.

“Although...I kind of like that you’re talking less. Maybe we could wait?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean took a flying tackle towards his brother, shouting, “Murder: the crime of unlawfully killing a person especially with malice!”

“Are you gonna help me?!” Sam asked, trying to pry Dean off of him, “Or are you just gonna let him kill me?”

Cas shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets, before saying with a deadpan expression, “Amused: pleasantly entertained or diverted.” 


	10. snakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of the folktober prompt list for October :)

“Hey,” Dean said, rolling into the kitchen, “Where’s Cas?” He had been disappointed to wake up to an empty bed, and he had hoped that the angel would be in the kitchen, nursing his insatiable (and weird) love of coffee.

“Dunno.” Sam flipped a page in the book he was reading, “Maybe he’s in the garden?”

Dean poured two mugs of coffee, added the cream and sugar, and then headed upstairs and outside. 

After everything had calmed down as much as it was going to, Cas had gotten hellbent (ha) on starting a garden, creating something, and Dean had humored him, even going so far as to build the planter boxes. 

The weather outside was perfect--just a bit too crisp, so that the coffee was a pleasant warmth. As Dean approached Cas, he realized Cas was talking.

“Well, I hope today goes much better,” Cas said seriously, the wind ruffling his already-tousled hair, “And that you find what you’re looking for.” There was no reply from whoever he was talking to, but he continued, “And thank you for visiting again.”

Dean sat down slowly next to the angel, trying not to startle him. Cas turned to him, his blue eyes big and round, “Hello, Dean. I was just saying hi to the snakes.”

Dean looked down into the planter box Cas was in front of, and sure enough there were three garden snakes looking up at them lazily. 

“Apparently yesterday finding food was hard,” Cas said, “And it’s just going to get cooler.”

“You can _talk to snakes_?”

“I can read their body language.” Cas took the mug of coffee Dean was offering him, “It’s not too hard.”

“Right, right.” Dean leaned over, pressing a kiss to Cas’s temple, “And what to the snakes think of me?” 


	11. mushroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for day four of the folktober prompt list :)

“What are we trying today?” Jack asked, sitting at the kitchen table, “Cas never told me.”

“Mushrooms,” Dean replied, putting the pizza into the oven, “Why he thinks they’ll be good is lost on me, but...” He ended the sentence with a shrug.

Since becoming human after defeating the (hopefully) last big bad, Cas had become enamored with trying as many different kinds of pizza toppings as possible. Dean realized he had possibly made a mistake by telling Cas that there were more kinds of pizza than meatlovers.

Jack shrugged back, returning to looking at his phone. 

There was a crunching noise, and Dean whipped around, “Jack, what are you eating?”

“Nothing.”

Dean sighed, taking his oven mitts off and walking to the table, holding out a hand, “Liar.”

“Fine.” Jack handed him a half-eaten chocolate bar, “I’m just _hungry_.”

“And we’re about to eat.” Dean pulled the wrapper over the chocolate, “I’ll put this in the fridge. You can eat it later, okay?”

“I thought you were my fun dad,” Jack grumbled.

“I _am_. But your not-fun dad will be back soon, and I don’t feel like getting chewed out for letting you eat candy right before dinner.” Dean sat down across from Jack, “Although I’ve heard there’s such a thing as dessert pizza...”


	12. fig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for day 5 of the folktober prompt list

Dean wakes up, naked, in a field.

The sky, a delicate cornflower blue, stretches over him, and the breeze dancing over his skin is soft, round, warm. The grasses are golden, flaxed, and he pulls himself to his feet. There, in the middle of the field, is a tree.

As he approaches the tree, he sees a figure seated next to it. He recognizes the dark head of hair, the sinew of the back. The angel--for that’s who it is, of course--is naked as well, but as Dean draws up to him, he finds himself unashamed.

Castiel looks up at him, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Sit,” he offers, and so Dean does, across from him. Cas leans back against the tree.

They sit in silence for an infinite collection of short moments, until Cas speaks again, “They write of a tree like this in the Bible.”

“What kind of tree is it?” Dean asks.

“A fig tree. The story goes that Jesus found a fig tree that was not producing, and so he cursed it.” 

“That’s not a great story.” Dean’s eyes rove over the leaf-less branches of the fig tree. 

“There’s another one, a parable,” Cas continues, “There was a fig tree that had not produced in three years, and one man wanted to cut it down, but another offered to fertilize it and properly tend it so that it would produce the next year.”

A pause. The breeze waves the grasses around them, a cloud drifts onto the edge of the horizon.

“What does this all mean?” Dean asks.

“Whatever you want it to mean. It’s your dream, after all.” 


	13. rabbit's foot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 6 of folktober!

“We do better on hunts if you’re with us,” Dean said, “You’re like a good luck charm, man.”

“Good luck charms are just made up of superstitions,” Cas replied, somewhat sullenly, “Rabbit’s feet? Lucky pennies? Human solutions to human problems.”

“I meant it metaphorically. Look, Cas,” Dean spread his hands wide, “We’re just--we work better as a team.”

“Hm.”

“And--” Dean dropped his voice, “Sam said I get ‘distracted’ if you’re not with us on hunts.”

Cas finally turned to face Dean, “And why’s that?” He raised an eyebrow.

Dean reached out to grab Cas’s wrist, “Come with us and maybe you’ll find out.” 


	14. spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> folktober day 7

“Wine and spirits,” Dean said, reading out the sign in front of them, “Used to make a joke about that every time Sam and I saw a liquor store.”

“Why--oh. _Spirits_.” Cas sighed, “Are you sure we couldn’t just go to a bar or something?”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t feel like seeing other people right now.”

“You know, Dean, it wouldn’t hurt to talk about--”

“As if you _want_ to talk about it.” Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition, “C’mon.” 

But as they wandered through the aisles of the liquor store, Cas wouldn’t stop talking. “I know we parted last time on bad terms, and we still haven’t--”

“When _haven’t_ we parted on bad terms? Here, hold this.” Dean shoved a bottle of gin into Cas’s hands, “Look, man, it’s water under the bridge. Always is. I’m just glad to have you back, and we’re in the midst of a crisis--”

“Dean.” Cas stopped in the middle of the aisle, in front of the bottles of vodka, “Do you remember when I almost killed you?” Dean turned to him, “How could I forget?”

“I said I didn’t know what broke the connection, but I _did_. I was made to kill thousands of copies of you, until I could do it perfectly, without hesitation. But when it was you, really you, I couldn’t do it.”

Dean met Cas’s gaze, his eyes wild, and then shoved the bottles he was holding back on to the shelf, walking out of the store. 

Cas slid into the Impala with two brown bags a couple of minutes later. He set them by his feet, bottles clinking, before turning to Dean, “I never told you, and I’m sorry. I should have been more honest with--”

Dean didn’t turn to face him, but instead said tonelessly, “I tried to kill myself while you were gone.”

“ _What_?”

His voice possessed the same flatness, “Sam and I were dealing with some ghosts. We killed me temporarily so that I could talk to some of them and......” At this, Dean’s voice broke, “I asked Billie to make it permanent. She said no.”

“And then she--”

“And then she brought you back. I had told her that I had nothing left to live for, that I just needed one victory.” Dean put the keys in the ignition, started the car.

Cas put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Let’s go home.” 


	15. frog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 8 of folktober :)

“Cas, c’mon.” When there was no response from the angel, Dean turned around, “Cas?”

Cas was crouching on the ground by the side of the road, looking at _something_. What, Dean didn’t know, nor did he care, because it was rainy and muggy and the air was damp, and he wanted to get out of this fed suit as soon as possible.

Dean let out a sigh and walked back to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Cas, buddy? We gotta go.”

“Shhh,” Cas said, putting a finger to his lips, “Look.”

Dean rolled his eyes and squatted next to Cas, “What?”

“Look at that frog.” 

It was, in fact, the largest frog Dean had ever seen, and he was also fairly certain that the brown-and-green speckled monstrosity was actually a toad. But somehow it didn’t really matter, because Cas looked happy, serene almost, just looking at it. 

The frog-toad-amphibian croaked at them and then hopped away. “Bye,” Cas said, waving before standing up, “Sorry, Dean. Now we can go.”

“No worries,” Dean replied, and he meant it. 


	16. insect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober day 9 :)

Cas reads the Bible for fun.

The first time Dean caught Cas doing it, the whiplash of watching a _literal angel of the lord_ in a trench coat laying on a crappy hotel mattress with a King James held in front of his face nearly sent Dean babbling.

It’s kind of interesting to watch, though.

Dean is sure, at this point, after nearly ten years of knowing Cas and calling the angel his best friend, Cas has read the Bible hundreds of times. But it doesn’t seem to matter--Cas still reads the “good book” with the same measured concentration, a slight furrow in his brow and purse to his lips. 

Cas turns a page, because _of course_ he’s reading it again, and Dean finally chooses to break the silence.

“Does it change each time?” He asked.

Without turning his head towards him, Cas answers, “Depending on the translation, some parts are more or less different from version to--”

“Dude. I was making a _joke_.” Dean rolls his eyes, takes a deep swig of his beer, “I mean, you’ve read it so many times. How is it still interesting?”

“Well,” Cas turns another page-- _has he been reading during this whole conversation?_ \--”Right now I'm on the bit where God sends down a plague of locusts.” A beat. “He also sent down frogs, but those aren’t insects.”

Cas says it as if it’s the honest-to-goodness truth, and Dean can’t tell if he’s kidding.

“I was there,” Cas adds, “It didn’t get very interesting, though, until the bit about water turning into blood.”

“Morbid much?”  
  
This makes Cas finally glance over, “I was a soldier for Heaven at the time. I wasn’t as....tolerant as I am now.”

“I’d say.” Dean takes another drink of beer. “But don’t you get bored of reading the same book over and over?”

“I watched humanity for millennia and never got bored.” Cas sets down the book and fully turns toward Dean. “I’ve been on dozens of hunts just like this one, with you, and I’ve never gotten bored.”

“Well, that _can’t_ be true.”

“You’re a very interesting person, Dean.”

Dean can’t think of anything to do with his hands suddenly, and they feel too large for his body, so he starts peeling the label off of his beer bottle, “Buddy, you have _got_ to meet more humans. You’ve been hanging out with just Sam and I for too long.”

“I wish you wouldn’t sell yourself short.” Cas sighs, “You’re incredibly intuitive, thoughtful when you try, witty, a good cook, caring, and you’ll do anything for those you love.”

“I usually fall short on that last one.” A ribbon of the bottle’s label falls off into Dean’s hand.

“Not from my point of view.” 

Dean’s eyes flick up to meet the angel’s, and he feels something warm stirring in his chest. 

Cas smiles at him, settles back into his chair, “You’re good company.” His mouth quirks up, before he continues, “You know, if you want something in the Bible to read and see what it’s all about.....start with the Song of Solomon.”

“Are you saying that because it’s a song?” Dean asks.

“No. It’s a love story.” 


	17. raccoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 10 of folktober :)

“Hey, buddy,” Dean said, without turning around, recognizing Cas’s footsteps as he wandered into the kitchen. He heard the sound of a chair scraping, and then Cas settling into it.

There was a period of silence, and then Cas said, his tone morose, “Why do raccoons have human hands?”

“Uh....” Dean set his spatula down on the counter before turning around to face Cas, “Why do they what?” “Have human hands.” Cas held up his hand, turning it to show Dean his palm, flexing his fingers, “Their hands are like ours.”

Dean was about to point out that Cas wasn’t human, but then he shook his head. With Chuck gone, Cas’s grace was nearly gone, so he was close enough.

“Any particular reason you’re concerned about raccoons?” Dean asked.

“They’ve been stealing food from the garden.” Cas frowned. 

“I could shoot ‘em.”

“But they have _human hands_!”

“That,” Dean turned back to the stove, stabbing the eggs he was scrambling with his spatula, “Doesn’t make them human.” 

“I still don’t want you to shoot them.”

Dean finished scrambling the eggs and dumped more cheese than was strictly healthy on them before dividing them between two plates and heading to the table. He slid one plate to Cas as he sat down, saying, “Well, there are probably other ways to take care of raccoons, too. Maybe we can look some up after breakfast.”

Cas’s face lit up. “Really? You would spend your morning researching instead of--”

“Hey, hey, don’t make me regret it. And eat your eggs. You’re not eating enough.” Dean pretended not to notice the way he could feel his cheeks heating up as Cas beamed at him. 

“You know,” Cas said after they had eaten in silence for a few minutes, “You still didn’t tell me why raccoons have human hands.”

“How would I know?”

Cas shrugged.

“Fine,” Dean sighed, “We can look that up, too.” 


	18. bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober day 11 :)

Dean stepped back to admire his work. He didn’t (always) like to brag, but he was pretty sure that no one had ever decorated for Halloween as well as he had decorated the kitchen.

“Isn’t it a little...” Cas began, coming to stand next to him, “A little--”

“Don’t say it’s a little much. Jack’s gonna love it.”

“I know he will. It’s just the....” Cas gestured to the plastic skeleton Dean had sat in Jack’s normal seat at the kitchen table, “Bones? How will he....”

“Cas, we’re _hunters_. He’s seen worse than bones. Anyways, I got him some nougat to sweeten the deal.”

“You’re going to become his favorite dad pretty fast.” There was a trace of fondness in Cas’s voice.

“Duh.” Dean slung an arm around Cas’s shoulder, “C’mon, let’s go put our costumes on.” 


	19. owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober day 12 :)

"It sounds like screaming,” Jack said, a trace of worry in his voice, “Do you think someone’s hurt?”  
  
“It’s probably just a screech owl,” Dean replied, “They’re called that ‘cause their hoots sound like screaming.” When Jack didn’t look less concerned, he added, “I’ll go outside and check, okay?”

Cas moved to sit next to Jack on the tiny couch as Dean left, dust coming up into the air from the aged cushions. They had gotten the last room in a motel in somewhere that was trulythe boondocks. It was really a motor court--all the rooms were separate little bungalows. The street light outside was busted. 

“It’ll be fine,” Cas reassured him, “Dean’s going to check on it.”

“I know,” Jack said, cheer starting to come back to his demeanor, “He takes good care of us.”

Cas felt a warmth in his chest at the content expression on Jack’s face. “Yeah,” he replied, “He does.”


	20. midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 13 of folktober :)

"Dean, wake up.”

Dean rolled over, burrowing his face into his pillow. 

“Dean.” There was an insistent hand on his shoulder, shaking him. 

Dean looked up, blinking wearily at his (former) angel, who was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants they had dug out of the back of Dean’s closet and an old Black Flag t-shirt (that had also once been Dean’s). Cas’s perma-bedhead was in full force, and he smiled gummily at Dean. 

“What?” Dean said, propping himself up on one of his elbows, “What time is it?”

“Midnight,” Cas replied.

“Why the--”

“The moon is pretty tonight,” Cas said, “I wanted to show it to you.”

Part of Dean wanted to be mad, but it was hard to hold onto any frustration at the look on Cas’s face, so he hauled himself out of their bed with a yawn, grabbing a flannel off the back of his desk chair and pulling it on. 

When they got outside, the moon hung low over the bunker, wide and yellow as if it had been painted onto the sky instead of being suspended in the heavens. The breeze was soft and only a bit chilling. Even so, Dean saw goosebumps pop up on Cas’s arms, and he put an arm around him to pull him close.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Cas asked, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Dean said, although he was watching Cas more than the moon, “Sure is.” 


	21. wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 14 of folktober :)

“It’s just a fire, man. What could go wrong?” 

Cas fixed Dean with a withering stare, “Well, there's a no-burn order in this county for the next week because of the drought.”

Dean rolled his eyes, popping open the Impala’s trunk in the garage, “Well, we already bought the firewood, and I promised Jack we would make s’mores, ‘cause he’s never had ‘em--”

“Dean, it’s not safe.”

“Since when has that stopped me?” Dean hauled the firewood out of the trunk and set it on the floor, “Cas, trust me. It’ll be fine.”

Cas crossed his arms, “Imagine living this long, coming back to life, and then dying because you set the field around the bunker _on fire_.”

“Always so dramatic.” Dean stepped towards Cas, taking his elbows and uncrossing his arms before wrapping the angel in a hug, saying into his shoulder, “Jack’s looking forward to it.”

Dean felt Cas soften slightly as he returned the hug, before pulling his head back to meet Dean’s eyes, “How about you two make s’mores tonight on the stove, and outside next week instead?”

“What do I get out of it?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, you get to spend quality time with our son....and then maybe we can generate some heat of our own.”

“Hmm....” Dean leaned in, kissing his angel, “I thought there was a _no-burn order_.” 


	22. fern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 15 of folktober :)

Ferns, like love, must be cared for. 

The only reason Dean knows anything about ferns is because he’s listened to Cas lament that he can’t have one. Ferns need “full to dappled shade,” according to the former angel, and there’s no lighting like that around the bunker--or at least not lighting that Cas deems suitable. And to grow ferns inside, things need to be _really_ humid.

(Dean did suggest that Cas put a fern in the bathroom, but the withering look he was fixed with upon that suggestion made it not worth further discussion.)

And so Cas works on his garden on the bunker’s roof, and Dean helps him, when he isn’t helping Sam excavate the stuff they finally have time to go through in the bunker, now that Chuck’s gone. 

At night, when they’re both exhausted from hauling things around (and Cas is often sun-burned because he gets sidetracked and forgets that he’s human now and needs to use sunscreen), they curl up in Dean’s bed--no, _their_ bed--and trade kisses until they fall asleep.

Tonight, though, Cas is restless. He keeps shifting against Dean, unable to sleep, and finally Dean catches his wrists.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean asks.

At first, Cas doesn’t answer, instead pressing his face against Dean’s shoulder. Finally, he says softly, “When are you going to get tired of me?”

“When am I gonna--” Dean pulls back, able to see the faint outline of Cas’s face in the dark, “Why would you--?”

He knows, though, why Cas would ask, because it’s a worry that’s been swirling in his belly, too. He never thought he was good enough for Cas, spent over a decade thinking so, and this _thing_ between them is so new and delicate and--

“Cas, we’ve been pulled apart so many times,” Dean takes Cas’s hand, holds it to his heart, “And we’ve always come back together. I could _never_ get tired of you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive, sweetheart.” 

A few minutes later, Cas is finally drifting off, his head lolling against Dean’s chest. Dean waits until his Cas’s breathing is steady to allow himself to drift off. 

_This_ is what all of that waiting was for. 


	23. oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 16 for folktober! :)

Somehow, Cas has taken to puns, and Dean is pretty sure it’s his own fault.

He was at the thrift store a couple of weeks ago, looking for a kitschy mug with bees on it (maybe it was for Cas, so sue him), when he strolled past the bookshelves and saw a book named _Jokelopedia_. It looked like the sort of thing Jack would like, and since Jack was no longer preoccupied with killing God, he could finally really be a kid.

So Dean had gotten it, and Jack had, as he predicted, _loved it._ He would read jokes out of it constantly to whoever he happened to trap, and the person who had the most ability to be patient with him was pretty much always Cas. 

Now, Dean and Cas are in the kitchen. It’s fairly early in the morning, and Cas is grumping about, his head leaning onto the kitchen table while he complains about being tired. 

Dean’s making coffee and resisting the urge to go wrap his arms around his best friend and drop a kiss on the warm part of his neck right under his chin. He’s still not sure exactly _what_ they are. Last week, when Cas had gone with Dean to get groceries, at one point they had held hands, and Dean has kissed his forehead a couple of times without thinking, but they haven’t _talked_ about anything. 

(They’re never very good at the “talking” part.)

Cas finally lifts his head from the table, “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean pauses on getting two mugs out for them.

“What do you call a sad cup of coffee?”

Dean groans, “I dunno, what?”

“A _depresso.”_ The look on Cas’s face is priceless.

“Just for that,” Dean said, “You’ll have to come get your own coffee.”

“But now _I’m_ depresso,” Cas pouts.

“Deal with it.” Dean sighs. 

Yeah, he made a mistake in getting Jack that book.

****

It goes on like this for about a week. Jack and Cas have become veritable pun machines, and there’s no one they can make laugh louder than each other. Secretly, Dean finds all of Cas’s dumb jokes endearing, but he can’t very well tell Cas that, so he pretends to be annoyed.

One morning, though, Dean’s in a particularly crappy mood, and when Cas tells him over their toast and coffee that he hopes Dean has a “ _brew_ -tiful day,” Dean shoves his plate away and stomps out of the bunker, pajamas and all.

He’s walked a bit away from the bunker and has finally slumped underneath a tree, frustrated at himself for storming out, for not getting enough sleep, for not just _talking to Cas and using his words_ , when he sees someone walking towards him.

It’s Cas, of course.

Dean feels an ache in his chest as he watches him approach. Cas is all unkempt, dark hair and big blue eyes and pajamas that definitely belonged to Dean at one point (Sam’s a sasquatch and his clothes would _never_ fit Cas) and _himself_ and it fills Dean with longing. 

Cas sits next to him under the tree, his shoulder brushing Dean’s, their knees touching. After a few minutes, Cas finally says, “I’m sorry about all the puns.”

“No, no, buddy, they’re fine.” Unconsciously, Dean reaches out, threading his fingers into Cas’s, “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Cas leans his head on Dean’s shoulder, “It must be annoying, though, listening to Jack and me.”

“You know,” Dean admits, “It kind of is. But it’s also nice to watch my family have a good time. Anyways, I bought him that book. If anything, I did this to myself.”

“Your family?”

“Duh.” Dean moves his head so he can look at Cas, “You’ve always been family. You know that.” Cas nods, and Dean expects him to drop his head back to Dean’s shoulder, but instead he crowds into Dean’s personal space, and Dean realizes that Cas is about to cross over the line they’ve been toeing. When Cas kisses him, Dean lets him, and then kisses him back. It’s nothing extravagant--chaste, simple, really like pressing their smiles against each other’s, but it’s more than enough for Dean, who thought he would never get this. 

Cas eventually pulls back and grins at Dean, before saying, “I hope that was _oak-y_.”

“Dude, I’m fairly certain this is _not_ an oak tree.” Dean stands up, offering a hand to Cas, “C’mon. Let’s go finish our breakfast.”

(When Sam finds them nestled against each other in the library later, he mutters something that sounds an awful lot like _“Finally,”_ and Dean flips him off.)


	24. spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of folktober :)

So Cas starts talking to all the creatures in his new garden on the bunker’s roof--the snakes, the bees (of course), the frogs, the spiders, the wayward little rabbits...all of them. 

He tells Dean that, even though his grace is waning, he can still read their body language and he knows that they understand him. It’s cute, but it also freaks Dean the fuck out, especially when, one day, Cas walks into the bunker kitchen with an enormous spider meandering down his shoulder.

“Shit, Cas!” Dean grabs a wooden spoon from a drawer, “That thing could be poisonous!”

“But she’s not.” Cas’s voice is as cool as anything, “She told me so.”

“ _She?”_ It had never occurred to Dean that spiders could have genders (although, he did refer to his car as a she, but...Baby was different than a goddamn _spider_ in his _kitchen_ ). 

“Yeah,” Cas reaches out a finger, _petting_ the damn thing, “She asked how my day was, and I told her there were some spiders in our room--she wanted to meet them and ask them to come outside.”

Dean feels a stutter in his chest when Cas refers to it as “their” bedroom (this whole being-with-a-sort-of-former-wavelength-of-celestial-intent thing was still kinda new), but then he rearranges his features into a scowl, “No way are you bringing that-her into our room.”

“It’ll only be for a moment.” Cas’s eyes widen as he speaks, and Dean knows before Cas has even finished his sentence that he’s going to relent.

“Fine, go ahead,” Dean waves the spoon in the direction of the hallway, “Knock yourself out--but then _take her back outside_.”

About five minutes later, Cas emerges from the hall with the same spider, and three more smaller ones. “They’re going outside,” he says to Dean, as if that was an explanation, and Dean briefly wonders if there’s a fairytale that could be spun to involve serenading eight-legged creatures (he can almost hear Cas’s voice saying, _Arachnids, Dean, they’re called arachnids_ ). 

Later that night, as they’re curled up like joined-together commas in Dean’s--no, _their_ bed, and Cas is starting to drift off, Dean mutters, “Cas?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“About the spiders...”

Cas’s eyes open lazily, “Would you rather I not bring any more inside?”

“That would be preferable, yeah.”

“Right,” Cas’s eyes slide shut again and he snuggles closer to Dean, mumbling into his collarbone, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

(Dean has a feeling that Cas is going to “forget” about this conversation and bring more spiders inside. And Dean knows he’s also gonna be powerless to stop him.)


	25. foxglove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober :)

Cas had a book on flower meanings. It was something he had found the last time Dean took him shopping, and now it was dog-eared and covered in coffee stains. Cas read it nearly obsessively, and as they settled into fall, Cas decided to cope with the onset of cold weather by plotting his flower garden for the spring. Dean kept finding him in various places in the bunker, writing in the margins of the book with a pencil or reading with a furrowed brow. 

One morning, while Dean was pouring their coffee, he heard Cas set the book on the counter with a _thunk_ before saying, “I’m disappointed.”

“Hm?” Dean was only half paying attention as he grabbed creamer out of the fridge, “What’s disappointing you?”

“Foxgloves.”

“There’s no way that foxes could wear gloves, Cas, you--”

Cas cut him off, “No, I understand the word. The flower is the problem.”

Dean knew fuck-all about flowers, so he faced Cas, handing him his coffee mug, “I’m gonna need more information.” 

Cas flipped the book back open, spinning it towards Dean. On the page was a heading reading _Foxglove (Digitalis)_ and several pictures of pink-and-purple bell-shaped clusters of flowers. 

“They’re very pretty,” Cas explained, “But also extremely poisonous, so it’s generally frowned upon to grow them in a home garden. Which is disappointing, because I want my flowers to all mean something, and I like what foxglovessymbolize.”

Dean’s eyes roamed further down the page, to where it said _Symbolism: Digitalis is a symbol of protection and healing._

Dean felt himself blush as he glanced back up at Cas, “Maybe we can figure out another flower for you to grow that means the same thing.”

*****

The next morning, when Cas came into the kitchen rubbing his eyes with one hand and clutching his flower book with the other, Dean shoved his phone into Cas’s face.

“What’s this?” Cas said, taking it and peering at the screen.

“It’s, uh...” Dean swallowed, “I looked up some stuff that might have....similar meanings. Thought you might be interested.” He took a gulp of his coffee to stop talking, burning his tongue and grimacing.

Cas read aloud from the webpage Dean had pulled up, which featured pictures of flat fans of tiny yellow-and-white flowers, “ _Achillea, commonly known as Yarrow, was named after the ancient Greek hero Achilles. According to legend, Achilles used Yarrow to treat his and his soldier’s wounds during the Trojan War._ ” He looked up, catching Dean’s eyes, before continuing, “ _Yarrow is a symbol of healing and protection._ ”

“Keep reading,” Dean said, “There’s more.”

“ _Throughout history, Achillea was used in religious or ritual purposes against negative energy and evil. It was used as an amulet or talisman to fight demons or to exorcise evil from a person.”_ At this, Cas laughed.

“And,” Dean said, shifting from one foot to the other, “They’re perennials, which I think means you only have to plant ‘em once and they’ll bloom every year. And they’re not, you know, poisonous.”

A smile that threatened to swallow Dean whole broke out over Cas’s face as he replied, “Thank you.” 


	26. berries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

If Dean thought Cas had gained some weird hobbies, Jack’s were weirder (likely as a result of hanging out with Cas all the time). Recently, his big thing had been looking up random holidays and announcing them at breakfast as if they were as important as, say, Christmas. There was Pasta Day, Apple Day, Paralegal Day, American Beer Day (that was Dean’s favorite), and a _lot_ more. 

But then, about halfway through October, Cas got a cold (and he was a big baby about it--a nearly-human-celestial-being was _not_ fun when he had a fever), and Sam was out on a minor hunt with Eileen, so it was really just Jack and Dean holding it down at the bunker. Not having as many people to hang out with was bumming Jack out, but Dean was pretty sure he knew a fix. 

After Dean had made breakfast, he brought some to Cas, who looked up at him blearily (the kinda-angel had been practically living in his pajamas for the past three days) and asked, “What’s the special occasion?” 

“Oh, you know,” Dean smiled, knowing that on the kitchen table was a similar plate of strawberry pancakes with a truly gratuitous amount of whipped cream on them and a note that said _Happy Sloth Day!_ , “It’s a holiday, Cas. We gotta celebrate.”


	27. bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

“Where are you going?” Dean asked. He had turned around at the jingling of car keys to see Cas standing in front of the garage door. 

“Hardware store,” Cas said, opening the door.

“.....Any particular reason?” Dean asked.

“For fun?” Cas escaped into the garage. 

Dean stood there sputtering long enough that by the time he followed Cas into the garage, he had already started up the Continental and was pulling out. Dean waved at him, and Cas waved back but then just...left.

Weird.

Dean busied himself cleaning the bunker, trying to convince himself that he didn’t mind that the angel had up and left to go the hardware store (which was _never_ Cas’s thing), and eventually he decided to do some laundry. 

He was bending down to see if Cas had left any socks under the bed (he insisted on wearing socks to bed and then _always_ kicked them off while he slept) when he noticed that there were a few sheets of paper on one of their bedside tables. They looked to be a series of notes on something, and the cramped handwriting belonged to Cas, so Dean picked them up. One had some kind of sketch of a box, and the other had a list of....bat facts?

  * _Kansas is home to 15 species of bats_
  * _The most common are big brown bat, little brown bat, and evening bat_
  * _Bats belong to the mammalian order Chiroptera, which means "hand-wing"  
_
  * _There are no vampire bats in Kansas (only insect-eating ones)  
_
  * _Most Kansas bats are very small, with a body length of only 3 to 4 inches  
_
  * _Bats naturally roost in the leaves of trees, in caves or under loose tree bark during the day, but many species prefer to roost in or around man-made structures  
_
  * _Large numbers of bats are capable of eating tons of insects each year, making them beneficial to humans_



Dean turned his attention back to the sheet with the drawing. It was labeled _Bat House._ The list of supplies next to the drawing included plywood, screws, and wood stain.

Ah.

Cas returned in the afternoon, disappearing into their room, but he immediately came out and found Dean in the library. 

“Dean,” he asked, “I had some papers on the nightstand. Where are they?”

Dean lifted them from the table and waved them, “These?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas replied impatiently, “Could I have them back?”

“How about this--you can, but you let me help. I can show you how to use the saw so that you don’t cut your hand off.” 

Cas considered it for a moment, before his face broke out into a grin. “That would be great. Can we start now? I want the stain to dry so that I can hang it up tomorrow and--”

“Of course we can.” 

As they walked to the garage, Cas embarked on an explanation of why bat houses were necessary--”It’s because of deforestation, Dean, and that means that the bats don’t have safe places to sleep or raise their young, and placing the house on a tree high up mimics their natural habitat, and I was thinking we could also get Jack involved with looking at the bats, once they come, and--”

Dean cut him off with a brief kiss, pulling away to look at his angel’s smile, at his eyes crinkling up in the corner. 

“What was that for?” Cas asked, tilting his head.

“Do I need a reason? C’mon, let’s get started on your bat house.” 


	28. opossum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

“Dean.”

“Hm?” Dean didn’t glance up at Jack, continuing to read _Treatises on Ghouls_. Cas and Sam had been insisting that he needed reading glasses, but Dean was stoutly ignoring them, instead choosing to put his face closer to the books. He could claim “deep interest.” 

(They never believed him for a second.)

“I’d like to get a pet.”

Dean looked up at Jack, who was wearing a sweater that Cas had knitted him--another one of Cas’s new hobbies, along with gardening and watching bats--and holding a mug of hot chocolate. The sweater was full of dropped stitches, but Jack had become sort of emotionally attached to it. 

(He understood--Cas had made Dean a scarf that possessed similar issues, but Dean rarely left the house without it these days.)

“Okay,” Dean folded down the corner of the page he was on and shut his book, “What’re you thinking? Dog? Cat? Fish?”

“Opossum.”

“I’m--what?”

“An opossum. They’re very cute.”

“I’m sorry kiddo, but they’re not pets...” Dean watched Jack’s face fall, “But--I have an idea.”

“What’s that?” Jack instantly brightened again.

“Lemme look some stuff up, okay?”

*****

“Do you want to go with me to the grocery store tomorrow?” Cas asked. They were doing the dinner dishes (Sam had somehow snuck out of dish-duty to go on a date with Eileen).

“I can’t. Jack and I are actually going out,” Dean replied.

“Oh?” Cas turned to him, raising an eyebrow, “What are you doing?”

“Visiting the humane society and then the wildlife rescue.”

(A cat, Dean could handle. An opossum, they were just gonna look at.)


	29. moss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober :)

“Did you know,” Cas said, “That there are over 12,000 known varieties of moss?” 

“Why the _fuck_ would I know that?” Dean glanced up from his beer from where he was standing at the kitchen island, “And why do you--” He waved a hand, “You know what? I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’m just reading a book on flora and fauna, Dean, there’s no particular reason.” Cas put bookmark in the aforementioned book, looking up at Dean, “You seem upset. What’s wrong?”

“Just a long day,” Dean said. He and Sam had spent the afternoon ganking a nest of vamps that had come close to Lebanon, terrorizing some farmhouses, and he felt it in his shoulders like he hadn’t before. 

“You could always retire,” Cas offered, “There are other hunters, and now that Chuck is gone--”

“M’not retiring, so don’t even think about it.” Dean took a long drink from his beer, “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.”

“Right.” Cas put his book on the kitchen table, standing up and walking over to where Dean was, standing at the counter, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Dean gave Cas a lazy smile, “Why’d you abandon your, what was it, flora and fauna?” 

“To help you out. I know I don’t have my grace anymore, not really, but I--”

“You’ve never needed grace to heal me,” Dean said, “C’mere.” He put an arm around Cas, pulling him close.

“Hey! I was supposed to be hugging you.”

“Well, tough luck.” Dean pressed a kiss to Cas’s temple, “You deserve to be healed, too.”


	30. snail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober :)

Your typical garden snail moves at a pace of 0.029 miles per hour. 

Dean thinks about this fact because it’s easy, simple--it doesn’t move around, the fact doesn’t, and the snail doesn’t much, either. While the hustle and bustle of their new, post-defeating-literal-God whirls around him, upsets his equilibrium ( _It was an unhealthy way to live, anyway,_ Sam tells him, _it wasn’t good for you_ ), he grounds himself in the fact that things _move_ and so can he.

It’s getting to be too much. 

The rest of them are so _happy_. Sam and Eileen go on dates, Jack has time to finally just be a kid, and Cas is.....himself. 

Humanity suits him. 

He’s somehow less of a morning person than Dean, he refuses to eat eggs that aren’t scrambled, he takes hella long showers, he occasionally mouths the words when he’s reading, he will dance to any and all music (Dean’s tested this--Cas is also _very bad_ at dancing), and, whenever Dean needs him, Cas meets him in the middle, without a word. 

Meanwhile, Dean is like the snail. 

0.029 miles per hour. 

Dean can’t explain why all of this is hard. There shouldn’t be anything pressing on his chest anymore. 

( _Ongoing trauma,_ Cas will tell him later, _can stunt one’s ability to process happiness and peace._ )

At this moment, though, Cas hasn’t told Dean that yet, and Dean hasn’t kissed him under a maybe-oak tree. At this moment, Dean’s just trying his best to work through his mess. 

(Despite the fact that he feels raw and unfinished, the others never seem to mind. He is unspeakably grateful.

He cooks for them all, tells them bad jokes, coerces them into movie nights. He thinks that they understand that he’s trying to say _thank you._ )


	31. ancient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, for folktober :)

Cas is old, like old-old, like ancient, like _here for the beginning of the goddamn cosmos_ old, like _remembers rain being invented_ old, and he could be anywhere, but instead he’s in Dean’s kitchen (well, the bunker’s, but no one else cooks--Jack and Cas are kind of clueless when it comes to that stuff, and all Sam makes is health food), reading _The Hobbit_ aloud to Dean while Dean himself makes them all spaghetti.

Good spaghetti takes time, and Dean’s got plenty of that now. Time to carefully chop up the celery and carrots (because even they can’t ruin marinara sauce), add in the spices early and let them marry, slow-stew the tomatoes. The flavor builds, as does the story.

_“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.”_ Cas reads from the book. 

Dean’s read _The Hobbit_ before, loves the story, the adventure of it all. He wishes he could say he loved his story, all the quests he went on over the years, but he knows that he’s not like Bilbo Baggins at the end of _The Hobbit,_ happy to return home and share his story. No, he’s like Bilbo at the end of _Lord of the Rings_ , where he goes off and away, because he is too different now. 

Dean knows his life experiences have left a hole in him, a gaping chasm. The loss of his mother, then his father, friends and family like Charlie, Bobby, and the Harvelles, fights with Sam and Cas, and the amount kills he’s had to make. 

The trouble with holes is, they’re an absence of a thing. They can’t be filled with what was taken. 

So Dean settles for this moment, the smell of rich tomato sauce in the air, Cas’s gravely voice reading a good book, and the promise of good times with family over the spaghetti later. 

_**“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.”** _


	32. beetle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober, once again!

“You know what I like the most about this movie?” Dean asked.

“How it’s completely unrealistic? That’s not how the afterlife works,” Cas replied drily. He hadn't objected completely to _Beetlejuice_ when Dean had suggested it, but he had spent most of the movie being appalled.

(He also didn’t like when Dean jokingly suggested they should make his trench coat black-and-white striped to emulate the titular character’s suit.)

For some reason, Dean found this hilarious, and laughed so hard that he almost slid off of the couch they had added to the Deancave after it looked like they could finally _really_ settle. Of course, it could have also been the six shots of whiskey and three beers he had already consumed as part of an elaborate drinking game that Sam had created and promptly abandoned. 

“The séance-exorcism was _so wrong_ ,” Sam said, “I mean, do you guys remember when we tried to get Cas?”

“In all fairness,” Cas replied, “I didn’t know that I would burn Pamela’s eyes out. I wasn’t trying to.”

“When I saw you for the first time,” Dean said, “You were a hell of a sight nicer than Beetlejuice, I’ll give you that.”

“From what Bobby told me later,” Sam said, “You were scared _and_ horny.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean tossed a pillow at his head, “You’re drunk.”

“So are we,” Cas pointed out, “And Dean, we have had--”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Oh?” Sam said teasingly, “I knew you guys were together, but I didn’t realize--”

Dean allowed himself to slide fully off the couch, “I hate _both_ of you.”

“That’s not what you said last night.” Drunk Cas had a shit-eating grin beyond compare.

“Just for that,” Dean said, “You can sleep in here.”

Cas reached for one of his hands, “Maybe I can make it up to you.”

“If you guys keep this up, I’m _leaving_ ,” Sam said, “There’s only fifteen minutes left of the movie. Can you two keep it in your pants for that long?” 

“No promises,” Dean said, already allowing himself to be pulled back up onto the couch. 

“I’ve decided,” Cas said after about five more minutes of _Beetlejuice_ , “When we get married, no sand worms are allowed.”

“That means we can’t invite Sam,” Dean countered.

“Hey!” But Sam didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked happy to see Dean and Cas curled up on the couch, with Dean’s head in Cas’s lap, one of Cas’s hands drifting through his hair.

Later that night (or morning--Dean wasn’t sure, although Cas did shush him for saying “Beetlejuice” three times outside of Jack’s door-- _He’s asleep, Dean, and it’s the middle of the night!_ ), after they had changed into pajamas and flopped into bed, Dean brought his face close to Cas’s, catching Cas’s lips with his own.

“Hey,” Cas said softly, “What’s up?”

“Did you mean that, what you said earlier?”

“Well, sandworms would definitely make terrible guests--”

Dean cut him off, “About getting married.”

“I was just joking around, I know you’ve never been interested in--” 

“Cas,” Dean interrupted him again, “If you wanted to marry me, I’d say yes.”

There was a pause, and then Cas said, “Alright. Dean, will you marry me?”


	33. grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, for folktober :)

The nightmares have gotten better, but sometimes Dean still wakes up. 

Tonight is one of those nights. 

A part of him feels guilty for waking up in a cold sweat, with images of whatever horror his mind has decided to throw at him tonight, feeling all of the anxiety and fear that he repressed for years. He should be dead right now, six feet under in his grave. He should be grateful to feel anything. 

Sometimes Dean can fall back asleep when stuff like this happens, but now, the image of Cas walking into that lake with the Leviathans is seared into his eyelids, and he can’t bear it. He knows, cognitively, that Cas is alive, that he’s not in their bed because he went to the bathroom or something (nearly-human Cas, with the last of his grace seeping out, has to do that), that he fell asleep with Cas’s arms around him. 

But he’s not _here-_ here, and that means Dean has to go find him. 

Cas isn’t in the bathroom or the library or the kitchen, so Dean goes to check the Deancave, the last place he expects to find him.

“Hey,” Cas says. He’s crouched in front of their DVD collection with some seriously spectacular (even by his standards) bedhead, “How do you feel about watching _Die Hard_?”

“I, uh--it’s a good one.” Dean awkwardly shoves his hands in his pajama pants pockets, shuffling to Cas, “What are you doing in here?”

“I was having trouble falling asleep, and I could tell that you were probably going to wake up soon. So--” Cas gestures at the couch, where he’s piled a couple of of blankets, and the table, where there’s popcorn and beer, “Two am movie night?” 

Dean finishes crossing the room and hauls Cas up by his armpits before pulling him into a hug. “I love you, you know that?” Dean murmurs into the angel’s hair.

“Doesn’t hurt to hear it again.” Cas presses a kiss to his cheek before pulling away, “Now let’s get started, before the popcorn gets cold.”


	34. goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

Sometimes Dean randomly remembers the “before” times in his life. There a lot of them. Occasionally, he tries to remember what it was like before Cas. He knows, of course he does, there were nearly three decades of his life before the angel pulled him out of hell, but they were completely different. 

Right now, as Dean sits the kitchen table, watching Cas help Jack make hot chocolate, he remembers a night, in a time that feels like forever ago, where Cas drank a liquor store and they killed a whore. 

_“Where the hell have you been?!”_

_“On a bender.”_

Cas then was still clumsy in his human body. Now, his face is lined (from frowning and smiling--although smiling now, more often than not), and his vessel is really _him_ now. Dean knows the curve of his smile, the weight of his hands, better than anything, and it’s all so golden. 

_“You breed with the mouth of a goat.....it’s funnier in Enochian.”_

Jack giggles at something Cas says, and then Cas brings the hot pan of milk (the way Dean taught him to make hot chocolate) and helps Jack carefully pour it into four mugs. It feels both new and incredibly regular to have a family, a happy family, a safe family. 

_“Not you, or me. Sam of course is an abomination. We'll have to find someone else.”_

That was one of the worst nights, when it felt like there was no hope, but there were nights after then that felt the same, as if any semblance of a happy ending was drifting away. That’s how it was a few months ago, when they were still struggling to try and defeat Chuck. 

And yet, here they are.

Jack and Cas stir the hot chocolate and then carefully bring it to the table. 

“I’ll go find Sam,” Jack says.

“I bet he’s in the library,” Cas replies, sitting down across from Dean, “How are you?”

Dean smiles, and says, with complete honesty, “I’m great.” 


	35. home :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

Dean marvels at how the bunker has changed since the end, since Chuck’s been gone.

It’s really the only place he’s ever considered “home,” he’s said to Cas and Sam before, _Let’s go home_. But now, things are cropping up that make that name real. 

Cas has amassed a truly horrifying collection of mugs. They’re all from the thrift store--Cas goes every week and always comes back with a new one. One day Cas takes Jack with him and they come back with a mug for Dean that says “#1 Dad.”

(So maybe the mugs aren’t so bad after all.)

The library becomes half-strewn with books, random notes left to each other, and blankets. The Dean Cave becomes the regular hang out spot--they even set up a movie-choosing rotation. Cas neatly draws it out and hangs it on the wall. 

(Cas always chooses rom-coms. Dean always complains and then tears up at the ending. 

They leave notes for each other in other places, too. _Dean, don’t use up all the hot water,_ Cas writes on a post-it attached to the mirror. Sam adds on, _seconded._ When Dean sees them, he puts his own post-it below theirs, _saved all the cold water just for you two <3 _

(This earns a frown from Cas and a shoulder punch from Sam.)

Sam takes Jack on his jogs, Dean teaches Cas how to make the perfect pancakes, they all stay up too late (except for Jack, who has a semi-enforced bedtime--the kid may have defeated God, but he’s still just that, a kid) drinking beer and laughing about their days.

There’s no need to reminisce about the good times when the good times are _right here._


	36. bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for folktober!

Cas has always been good with everything that lives. 

The world is full of beaten, broken down creatures ( _Humans are animals too, Dean. They count.)_ and Cas cares for them all. Dean has always thought that, perhaps, there was nothing wrong with the angel at all. He had heard Cas told that there was a “crack in his chassis,” but the angels had been ordered to love the Earth, and Cas has. He has loved it enough to fall before, and now his grace is nearly gone, for good.

Cas doesn’t seem to mind, not this time.

He tells Dean that it was a choice, which made it different. Rather than an abrupt absence, his grace simply wanes, day by day. Every night he needs a little more sleep, has to eat a little more, is a little more human.

But he still loves all of the creatures of the earth. 

Dean can understanding liking the “cute” animals--bunnies, dogs, cats, birds, maybe even guinea pigs (now _that_ brought back memories). Cas, however, loves all the in-between ones. There are bees, of course, but also snakes, spiders, frogs, bats, turtles, and Dean. 

Sometimes things get heavy for Dean. He knows why, even though technically there’s no reason to hurt anymore. They’re all, finally, safe. It’s something that he isn’t used to, and sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, remembering a long-ago threat. 

And Cas is here. He puts on Dean’s favorite movie, or pull out beers for them, or distract him with litanies on wildflowers, or ask if they could go on a drive. Other times, he lets Dean have his space. Dean is so goddamn grateful. 

“Do you ever regret it?” Dean asks one day, when Cas has asked to go on a drive. _Houses of the Holy_ is playing on the radio--Dean turns it down. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Dean.” There’s a smile in Cas’s voice.

“I mean...coming here, staying with us. You had so many chances to leave.”

“Dean, pull over.”

Dean glances over at Cas, but the (not exactly anymore) angel doesn’t seem upset. He just has a small smile on his face. 

Dean pulls over at the first place he sees that has enough shoulder, next to a field. Cas gets out of the Impala, and Dean follows him, because he's not sure what else to do.

Cas lays down in the grass and closes his eyes, and Dean lays down next to him, because he’s not sure what Cas wants, but so far this seems fine. 

After a few minutes of silence, Cas opens his eyes and looks at Dean, and then at the sky. “You can’t see any of this from Heaven,” he says, “Not like this, anyways. It’s different here. Do you feel the breeze, the sunshine?”

Dean nods.

“This place....” Cas pats the ground next to him, “Is my home because I chose it. I chose this, and so I cannot regret it.” His voice is so damn _sincere_ , and it hits Dean right in the ribs.

“Also,” Cas adds after another quiet moment, “Heaven doesn't have you in it, and that’s the whole reason I left in the first place.”

Cas just _says_ shit like this sometimes, as if it’s _nothing,_ and it always leaves Dean gasping for air. It means something (everything Cas says usually means something), but Cas also dispenses these words as if they’re easy, as if they’re part of his nature.

(Well, it’s easy because they _are_ part of his nature. Even in anger, Cas has always been remarkably giving. See “crack in his chassis” that Dean isn’t 100% sure is a flaw.)

Dean can’t think of a response, but he also knows that he doesn’t have to, that he’s free to just look up at the clouds here, and hit pause, sit in this moment.

And that’s enough. 

Cas has always been good with everything that lives. 


	37. haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober!

The bunker is haunted.

Not with ghosts and spirits, but with emptiness. 

(Not _that_ kind of emptiness.)

It’s true that the bunker is home. They somehow all made it out of Chuck’s grasp alive, and they have the rest of their lives to enjoy. 

And yet, the emptiness drifts through the halls. This was never meant to house only four people, and while occasionally they’ve had visitors, it’s nothing to the scale of what the Men of Letters would have had all those years ago. 

Sam and Eileen spend more and more time out of it, often taking Jack with them, and Dean is nearly always in the garage or running errands, and Cas...

Cas is in his garden. 

He knows that soon enough, they will all leave. Life is supposed to be like the garden, he thinks. Some things are perennials. You plant them once, they keep coming back. Others are annuals. You plant them anew every year--only sometimes you change your mind, plant radishes instead of green onions.

Next year, their lives will look different, just as they did last year.

Cas moves onto the next bed that needs weeding.

This is good work, quiet, with his hands. It makes sense why Dean likes to work on cars--something tangible. Cas has to wrestle with some particularly stubborn weeds, digging his fingers into the earth. He leans back on his heels, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, when the weeds are finally gone.

“You know what they say about weeds,” Dean’s voice says from behind him, “They’re just plants growing where you don’t want them to be.” He kneels down next to Cas.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas holds out a hand, “Do you have--”

“Right here.” Dean pulls the seed packets out of his jacket pocket, handing them to Cas, “Yarrow seeds, just like we talked about.”

Cas takes his tiny shovel, starts making holes in the bed. Dean lowers himself from his knees into a seated position, watching Cas intently.

“What?” Cas asks him, tilting his his head, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean’s features relax into a soft smile, “Just enjoying the view.”

_Achillea, commonly known as Yarrow, was named after the ancient Greek hero Achilles. According to legend, Achilles used Yarrow to treat his and his soldier’s wounds during the Trojan War._

_Yarrow is a symbol of healing and protection._


	38. forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folktober!

Cas remembers so much. Too much, he thinks. Part of him wishes he could have an empty mind, a blank slate.

In his mind, he goes to a forest.

It doesn’t matter _which_ forest, he’s not particular. What matters is that it’s a forest, that there’s dappled light seeping through leaves in various shades of green. 

(Green is always calming.)

Sometimes it’s fall, and the leaves are golden, and the sun sinks away, casting shadows. Other times it’s winter, empty limbs coated in show, and occasionally it’s a rainy spring.

There are always creatures in Cas’s forests, frogs and turtles, snakes and spiders, rabbits and deer. The deer are curious and walk up to him, inclining their heads to him and twitching their soft ears. 

And streams. Sometimes they aren’t audible and are a surprise to come to, but often there’s the rush of water against rock and mossy banks. 

In the forest, he doesn’t feel so cold. His insides are cold. He has been human before this, he knows that it is meant to be harrowing, that he will feel everything now. 

The forest helps. 

When he tunes back into the world around him, Dean’s smile is much like the dappled light, the deer, the changing weather through the seasons. 

Peaceful.

Home. 


	39. christmas sweaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: you knit me a sweater for christmas and I realize I'm in love with you

“I wish there was a better name for this...” Cas mused, “Like how we call our Thanksgiving ‘Friendsgiving’? What’s our Friend-mas called?”

“You’ve gotta quit it with the air quotes, man,” Dean replied, turning the corner, “Or I’m gonna just leave you on the side of the road and pick you up after I’m done at Charlie’s.”

“You always say that, and you’ve never left me.” Cas’s tone was smug. “Seriously, though. This needs a fun name.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Since college, he, Cas, and their other friends had been doing their own Thanksgivings and Christmases--and once, an incredibly ill-fated Valentine’s Day that ended with Dean drunkenly kissing Cas and then pretending he didn’t remember it the next day.

(Honestly, Dean was surprised he had only done that once, since he and Cas lived together and there was the constant temptation.)

“Who do you have for secret Santa?” Dean asked. He had been trying to figure it out for weeks, but Cas had just kept shutting himself in his room. Cas preferred to hand-make gifts, and he wanted them to be a surprise for everyone, so this was normal, but Cas would also usually give Dean hints as to who he had.

(Dean, for his part, had their friend Benny, which was easy enough--a cookbook devoted solely to nachos did the trick.)

Cas smiled at him serenely and then resumed staring out the window. 

“Alright,” Dean said, “Be like that.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Cas replied, “Patience, Dean.”

“Ugh.”

When they got to Charlie’s house, Dean was nearly attacked by her enthusiastic hug.

“Jesus, Charlie! You saw us a few weeks ago!”

“But I always miss you guys when you’re gone.” She turned her attention to Cas, her red curls bouncing, “And how’s everyone’s favorite angel?”

“Not an angel,” Cas said, but he was smiling. It was true, Dean thought, Cas was sort of angelic--way too nice and forgiving, especially to Dean himself. 

“Everyone else is already here,” Charlie continued, “Apparently Benny took it upon himself to pick everyone else up.”

The group was small-ish, but cozy. There was the aforementioned Charlie, who was a video game developer, Dorothy, who was Charlie’s girlfriend, Benny, who worked with Dean at the auto shop, Jo, who was nearly done with law school (and was going to be a kick-ass lawyer), and Ash, who wasn’t doing much these days but was having a good time.

And, of course, Dean (mechanic) and Cas (librarian), who had been randomly made roommates freshman year and had been inseparable ever since. 

After a rousing round of drinks and a disaster of a cookie-decorating session, it was time for secret Santa. Dean accepted the lumpy package that had his name on it and squished it slightly, wondering what it was. 

Benny, as Dean predicted, loved his cookbook, and proposed that at their next get-together he would cook for them (”Then I just won’t eat,” Jo had said, causing gales of laughter). Cas got a leather-bound set of _Paradise Lost_ books from Dorothy and Dean thought the guy was gonna break down and cry.

Then it was Dean’s turn.

He slowly unwrapped his gift, but the guessing game ended as soon as he saw a patch of knit.

“I don’t even have to try,” he said, holding up the forest green sweater, “Cas?”

“You got me,” Cas said, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Dean, we can match!” Charlie said, pointing to a hook by her door where the scarf Cas had knitted her the year before hung.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said, smiling. Inside, though, his stomach was flip-flopping. 

_Cas had knitted him a sweater._

Dean was in a daze for the rest of their...”Friendmas,” Jo and Ash concurred with Cas, “I think Friendmas is a great name.” They watched _Home Alone_ and got fantastically drunk-- _drink every time Kevin thwarts the robbers! Drink every time you see a Christmas tree!_ \--and all ended up bunking at Charlie’s, too inebriated to drive home. 

Dean and Cas were relegated to the pull-out couch in Charlie’s basement, as per usual, while everyone else made use of the guest room, the couch, Charlie’s own bed, and a blow-up bed she had tucked into a hall closet. Dean and Cas didn’t mind bunking together, so they usually ended up here.

Dean felt himself starting to drift off when Cas whispered, “Dean?”

“Hm?” 

“I hope--I hope my gift was sufficient.”

Dean rolled over to face Cas, able to barely see the outline of his face in the dark, “Dude. It was awesome. Your talent at that stuff always amazes me.” Cas didn’t answer, so Dean asked, “Something on your mind?”

“I just--no, nevermind. It’s nothing.” “Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Dean tried to keep teasing out of his tone, but it was hard.

“Dean, I don’t really want to--” Cas sighed, “It’s not like it would change anything. I just feel how I feel.”

_I just feel how I feel._

Dean recalled how Cas’s cheeks had turned pink when Dean had complemented his work earlier, how comfortably they had fallen together during the movie, like they always did--their lives were molded around each other, it happened so easily.

_I just feel how I feel._

_“_ Hey,” Dean whispered, “Remember a few years ago, when we tried to do Valentine’s Day?”

“Yeah.” Cas’s voice sounded heavy.

“I lied, then.....I remember kissing you. I just thought...you hated it.”

“No, I...just didn’t want to be an experiment, or something. We were drunk. We kind of are now.”

“But...” Dean reached out, found Cas’s shoulder, hoped it was okay, “We’re not drunk all the time, are we?”

“Are you--” Dean interrupted Cas’s sentence by leaning forward in the dark and kissing him, missing his mouth at first, lips over his stubbly jaw, until he found Cas’s lips and then Cas was kissing him back, slowly at first, before Cas started really putting his jaw into it.

Dean eventually pulled back, leaning his forehead against Cas’s, “I love the sweater.”

“And me?” Cas asked, a hint of mischief in his tone.

“And I love you.”


	40. snowballs and studying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I'm studying at the library/bookstore and you throw snowballs at the window

Cas frowned at his textbook-- _”Allegory in Middle English Texts.”_ As far as he was concerned, the book didn’t make _any_ sense, but his final for English 342 was going to center around Chapter 8, so it wasn’t like he had any choice but to read it. 

His eyes had been skating across the same paragraph for ten minutes when he heard a _thunk_ on the window next to his chair. Cas chanced a glance away from his book and out the window just in time to see a snowball hit the window, eliciting another _thunk_. Grinning at him from the other side was his boyfriend, Dean, whose cheeks were pink with cold. 

Cas rolled his eyes at him and returned to his book, only to be disrupted again a few minutes later by Dean stomping into the bookstore, pulling off his gloves as he went.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, frowning, “I told you I was getting out of our apartment for some _quiet_ while I studied.”

“You’ve been here for six hours,” Dean replied, “And it’s almost closing time.”

“It is?”

“The bookstore closes at four on weekends, dumbass.” Dean took Cas’s book out from under his hands, shutting it, “You still have tomorrow before the final. Let’s go home, get pizza, watch a movie....” Dean raised an eyebrow before whispering conspiratorially, “I’ll even let you choose the movie.”

“What are you getting out of this?” Cas asked, tilting his head, “You never let me choose the movie.”

“Maybe I just want to spend quality time with my incredibly intelligent and handsome boyfriend.” Dean smirked, “You ever thought about that?”

Cas sighed and stood up, taking his book from Dean and shoving it in his backpack, “You’re lucky I love you. This final is important.”

“Of course it is. Now let’s go home.” 


	41. frozen hot chocolate

“Look, Dean, they’ve got special holiday flavors.”

Dean let himself get tugged down the frozen food aisle to the ice cream, watching Cas as he crouched down in front of it, absentmindedly rubbing his nose and studying the ice cream—egg nog, peppermint, and—

“Frozen hot chocolate. That’s a bit of an oxymoron.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Dean said, vaguely remembering from one of his scattered high school English classes what an oxymoron was.

“It says—“ Cas reached in and took the container out, “It’s got chocolate ice cream, and marshmallows, and chocolate flavored pieces…chocolate flavored? Why can’t they just say chocolate?”

“I dunno, Cas.”

“I find it unsettling. But intriguing.” Cas straightened, “Can we get it?”

“Sure.” Dean opened the freezer again, “I’m gonna get peppermint, too. More flavors, more fun.”

Cas had gotten into Christmas in a big, semi-scary way. He’d become obsessed with _Last Christmas_ by Wham!, strong-armed Dean into letting him decorate before Thanksgiving, and spent a week making gingerbread badly over and over until he nailed it.

At the moment, he was walking slightly ahead of Dean and the basket, wearing a pair of holey jeans they’d found at the thrift store and one of Dean’s old red flannels. Cas had, since becoming human, sort of given up on trying to tame his hair. By all accounts, he looked like a guy who had just rolled out of bed and come to Wal-Mart for the express purpose of buying a shit-ton of ice cream and pizza pockets.

When they got back to the bunker, Dean set himself immediately to putting away the groceries—Cas wasn’t much help. Human Cas was messy and disorganized, always leaving gross, condiment-covered spoons on the counter and precariously stacking things in the fridge. At the moment, he was also reading the ice cream ingredients aloud to Dean.

“You wanna try some now?” Dean asked, rummaging through a cabinet for some bowls.

“We can do that? It’s…only three pm.”

“Sammy’s not here to police the hell out of us and complain. I wonder if they make kale flavored ice cream….

Cas ignored the jibe at Sam, his eyes widening, “I think trying some would be a good idea.”

“Awesome. Let’s get to it.” Dean took the cartons from Cas, digging their ice cream scoop into the first one, peppermint. He served a bowl of peppermint and a bowl of frozen hot chocolate, before handing Cas a spoon.

“I don’t want you ruining your appetite,” Dean said, “I’m making spaghetti for dinner tonight. We can share.” He dug his own spoon first into the peppermint, a sticky, bright pink, “Just don’t do any of that weird melting shit.”

Cas liked to swirl his ice cream around, melting it in the bowl before he ate it, and Dean wasn’t putting up with that.

At it was, Cas held his own spoon, with the frozen hot chocolate ice cream, in his mouth, and stared thoughtfully at the bowl.

“It’s very…chocolatey.”

“Well, no shit. It’s called _frozen hot chocolate_.”

“That’s true.” Cas nodded thoughtfully, “I like it, though.” He was smiling at Dean now, the corner of his mouth curling up. Cas reached across him to get some of the peppermint, doing the same holding-thing with the spoon. He somehow already had a swipe of chocolate on his cheek, right by his mouth.

Dean felt his mouth dry out. Human Cas was always so warm and close, and Dean had stopped asking for personal space ages ago. Now he was leaning all the way into Dean’s personal space, holding a spoon in one hand, his arm brushing Dean’s chest as he reached across. Dean turned his head, finding himself inches from Cas and his open blue stare. If he just tipped his chin slightly, he could—

Cas beat him to it.

There was no waiting or hesitation. Cas met his gaze, and then gently nosed Dean’s chin up, pressing his lips into Dean’s, soft and gentle, and Dean felt his lips part slightly to fit together with Cas’s. Cas tasted like peppermint and chocolate and everything _good_.

Cas pulled back, pressing their foreheads together and smiling.

“Before you ask,” Dean said, “You can do that again anytime you want.”

“I was sort of counting on it.” Cas’s smile had turned from soft to a bit deviant, and Dean had an inkling, as he put his hand on Cas’s cheek to pull him in for another kiss, that he was creating a monster.

(Well, there were worse things than your ice cream melting because you were busy making out with a former wavelength.)


	42. Christmas Shopping

Dean had never had what one might call normal Christmas (okay, there was that one time with the wood nymph who tried to kill Jack, although he wasn’t sure that counted), but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be this _stressful._

“You’ve got it easy,” he said to Sam as they roamed through the store, “You can just pick up some books or whatever for Eileen. But Cas knows _everything_. He’s seen _everything_. He’s impossible.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” Sam grumbled good-naturedly, “It can’t be that hard. I’m pretty sure that if you got Cas a rock or something he’d be thrilled.”

“Dude’s in love with me, I get it.” Dean felt his cheeks reddening.

“Look, I’m gonna go get some milk, since you drank the rest of it this morning. Why don’t you try to go look by yourself?” Before Dean could summon an answer, Sam had rolled their cart away.

“Goddammit,” Dean muttered, setting off down a random aisle. He knew what Cas _liked_ \--Cas liked plants, old books, candles scented like food, cheeseburgers, every animal ever created...

But none of it seemed heartfelt enough. Sam had been giving him suggestions--a container of peppermint hot chocolate. The aforementioned godforsaken candles (one day, Dean was going to get laid in a bedroom that _didn’t_ smell like cotton candy. He was going to make fucking sure of it). A grow-your-own-herbs kit. And Cas would have loved all of those things. But none of them said _I love you_ the way Dean wanted them to. He wanted to get that special happy spark in Cas’s eyes that only came when he was particularly delighted by something. 

(If he could have just given himself for Christmas, he would have, but since Cas had already _had_ him a fair amount of times at this point...)

Dean shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked down an aisle of dishes and porcelain, listening to _Jingle Bells_ over the tinny store speakers. 

As he walked, something yellow caught his eye, and Dean crouched down, his knees cracking as he went and reminding him that he was past forty now. 

Oh, this was _perfect_.

*****

Cas unwrapped presents like a bitch, carefully peeling back the tape and re-folding the wrapping paper once he was done so that it could be re-used. For that reason, Dean had used a bag and tissue paper to try and prevent Cas from doing that but--

“Seriously, man?” Dean said, as Cas folded the damn tissue paper. Cas smiled at him, the gummy, crinkly smile that Dean loved so much, and Dean settled back with a smile of his own as he watched Cas open his gift.

Cas took one look at it and started laughing. “This is perfect, Dean, I love it.”

“What is it?” Sam asked. He was curled up on the couch with an arm around Eileen, and all four of them were wearing matching pajamas, and it was _wonderful_ and so goddamn domestic.

Cas held up the coffee mug Dean had gotten him, which had bees painted on it, and read out, “Bee Sweet.”

“Dean, that’s _adorable_ ,” Sam said, starting to laugh, “So _cute_.” “It may be Christmas but I’ll kill you, Sammy, I really will.”

(For his part, Cas got Dean one of those stupid candles. It was apple pie scented, though, so Dean couldn’t be _too_ mad _.)_


	43. chicken noodle soup

“What do you mean, _why?”_ Dean turned around, his voice incredulous, “Because I’m not giving Cas some shitty canned chicken noodle soup, that’s why!”

“You know, the last time _I_ was sick, you didn’t make _me_ soup,” Sam said, and Dean briefly considered picking up the knife he had used to cut the chicken into cubes and flinging it at his brother’s head. 

“Well you’re not Cas, are you?”

“Ooh, Dean, do you have a _crush_ on Cas?”

“Shut it.”

Sam left the room cackling, and Dean turned his attention back to the soup. Cas was really out of it--they had gotten him tested for the flu, it was so bad. He’d been mostly sleeping for three days, and when he was awake, he was _miserable._ So Dean was pulling out all of the stops--bowtie pasta instead of noodles (Cas thought the shape was fun), making the broth from scratch, and a hearty helping of vegetables.

When the soup was ready, Dean fixed up a big bowl of it and set it on a tray he’d dug out of a cabinet, adding a sleeve of crackers, a glass of water, and some cough medicine.

Cas was surprisingly awake when he headed to the Dean Cave, where Cas had been curled on the couch all day. At the moment, a documentary on polar bears was playing on the television.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, setting the tray on the table, “How’re you doing?”

Cas coughed and smiled at him feebly, “I’m alright.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean sat next to Cas, before taking the tray and gently setting it on Cas’s lap. “Take your medicine.”

“It’s gross.”

“So are you, right now.”

“Ouch.”

Cas ate his lunch slowly while Dean spoke over the documentary with fake commentary, “And here we see a seal heading towards a polar bear. This indicates that the seal is a complete dumbass.”

Cas let out a laugh, the first he’d made in days, and then smiled at Dean for real, wide and gummy.

A few minutes later, though, Cas was limp and had drifted off to sleep again. Dean picked up the tray before leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss onto Cas’s forehead. 

Getting teased by Sammy was worth it, if it put a smile on his angel’s face.


	44. whipped cream

Dean woke up to the smell of something burning. 

He rolled over, mashing his pillow over his head--he was in the middle of a mid-birthday nap, with plans to stay up obnoxiously late tonight watching westerns and drinking beer.

(He hated being in his forties and not just being able to stay up late. Not that he would ever admit that’s what this nap was _for_.)

The burning smell didn’t go away, and with Dean’s luck, one of the bunker’s other residents had burned the kitchen down. 

He rolled out of bed and stomped to the kitchen to find Cas crouched in front of the open oven, which had smoke coming out of it.

“Cas, what the hell?” 

“I seem to have made a mistake,” Cas said gravely.

“No shit. Get up.”

Cas reluctantly allowed himself to be hauled up to standing. He smiled at Dean weakly, and Dean felt a little bit bad about being irate. Whatever had happened, it was a mistake. 

“Dude, it’s fine. What’d you do?” He said, hoping that he sounded somewhat soothing.

“I, uh, was making a pie. For you. Because it’s your birthday. And I may have...burned it.”

“You definitely burned it. But it’s fine.” Dean grabbed hot pads and pulled the char-filled pan out of the oven, trying to busy himself with cleaning up to ignore the _Cas-tried-to-make-me-a-pie_ thrumming in his chest. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said, the frown on his face practically audible. 

“Like I said. It’s fine.” Dean finally turned from the island counter to look at Cas. Cas’s gaze was wide and apologetic, and Dean wanted a way to let him know that it was _okay,_ that he really wasn’t upset. So he did the best thing he could think of: he crossed to the fridge and rummaged around until he found a container of whipped cream. 

“That was to go on top,” Cas said lamely.

“I know. C’mere.” Dean grabbed two spoons and the Cas’s arm, dragging him to the table.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean pulled the lid off of the container, “So we can’t eat the pie. We’ll eat the topping.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“And?” Dean handed Cas a spoon before getting a big spoonful of whipped cream for himself, “It’s my birthday, Cas.”

“That’s why I was making a pie, and I--”

Unconsciously, Dean reached across the table and put his hand on Cas’s. “It’s okay,” he said, and Cas’s eyes snapped up to meet his. Dean could feel his face turning red. 

“’Sides,” Dean said, softly, “I already got all the sweet stuff I need.” 

(Did the whipped cream eating turn into Dean wiping it off the corner of Cas’s mouth turn into kissing turn into Sam walking in on them making out in the kitchen and grumbling, “Finally?” Maybe. But that wasn’t Dean’s story to tell.)


	45. 15x19 coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> god I wish 15x20 had gone this way but instead we got...whatever happened in the finale??????? hm.

_“The past six months, when I fall asleep//Every night, you're in my dreams//You're waving goodbye, too far away to touch//I'm a lover fresh out of luck.” --Fun, Sir Sly_

_____________________________

Dean didn’t sleep, and when he did it was in fits and starts.

That’s how it had been, since...everything. He couldn’t address it--it was like his mind just waved its hand and went _that’s the...shit that we haven’t dealt with_.

Sometimes he rolled over and felt phantom fingers, phantom arms, the ghost of legs tangled up with his and thighs slotted together. 

This morning was no exception.

The pillow wasn’t _him,_ and what made it worse was that Dean was feeling the memory of something he’d never even had, because while he was brave enough to face off against God, he wasn’t brave enough to say those three little words.

_I love you_.

Cas had been, though. Cas had buckets of brave, from the beginning. _I’m hunted, I rebelled, and I did it all for you_. He was always willing to stick a limb out-- _always happy to bleed for the Winchesters_.

That reminded Dean of the godforsaken bloody handprint, and _that_ got him out of bed, because he needed the image of Cas’s last smile out of his head, and _fast_. 

“Hey,” Sam said when Dean got to the bunker’s kitchen, already nursing a cup of coffee, “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Eileen still asleep?”

Sam nodded once, then busied himself with his laptop in front of him. Dean was more focused on Sam’s tight-lipped expression, the same expression he’d been making every time he was worried Dean was going to lose it.

(C’mon, Sam had only found him passed on the floor....eight times in the past six months. That had to count for something, right?)

“So get this,” Sam finally said, when Dean was seated across from him with coffee of his own, “I think I've found a case.”

“Ah.” Dean took a sip. Sam had been trying to get Dean back into hunting for the past two of the six months, and had insofar been unsuccessful. “I was going to check Baby’s oil today, clean her up a little bit.”

“Like you’ve been doing every day I bring up a case?” Sam raised an eyebrow, shutting his laptop to fully turn his attention onto Dean, “I know....I know you miss him--”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“--Let me finish.” Sam steepled his fingers, “I know you miss him. Which is why....I think I've found a case. I think I know how we can get Cas back?”

Dean felt the first real glimmer of hope he’d had since they’d finally defeated Chuck. “You do?”

Sam nodded. “How do you feel about a trip to Ohio?”


	46. Fantasia

**_fantasia (noun): a work (such as a poem, play, or work of music) in which the author or composer’s fancy roves unrestricted_ **

Cas is having one of those days. 

He sleeps in more than usual, and getting up, he tells Dean, is heavy. After barely touching his breakfast, he retires to the Deancave, on the couch that they recently dragged in, and burrows himself under a mountain of blankets, turning on some procedural crime drama on low volume. 

Dean knows that the transition to being human hasn’t been easy, and that it’s not unusual for Cas to sink into depression. Dean’s no stranger to that, although it’s only recently that he’s started talking about. 

It’s his day to get groceries, so he left Cas with a gentle kiss to the forehead, and now Dean is standing in front of the check-out with a cart full of all the stuff it takes to feed four adults and one nephilim. He spies a salted caramel dark chocolate bar and slides it in with the rest of the food at the last minute. Cas might like it--he’s a little particular about his sweets, but if they’ve got a little bite, like dark chocolate, he usually enjoys them. 

When Dean returns to the bunker and traipses down to the Deancave after stowing the rest of the groceries, he finds that Cas hasn’t moved on the couch, but what’s on the television is different. 

Orchestral music swells from the television’s speakers, and colorful illustrations work their way across the screen, yellow and red squiggles chasing each other as the music swells. Then, the animation changes to a series of rolling pink and purple mountains against a blue sky. Dean walks around the couch and deposits himself next to Cas as orange, futuristic buildings replace the hills against the sky. Cas moves over an incremental amount to allow Dean to lie down, and Dean holds up the chocolate bar between them. 

“Got this for you,” he says. 

“Thank you.” Cas’s voice sounds thick from disuse. Dean sets about to unwrapping the chocolate as the music on the television fades out, only to be replaced by a man’s voice. 

“You know, it’s funny how wrong an artist can be about their own work,” the man starts, and then he goes on to talk about Tchaikovsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_. The music fades back in, and Dean vaguely recognizes it this time. 

“He’s right,” Cas says. 

“About...?” Dean raises an eyebrow, breaks off a piece of chocolate and hands it to Cas, who slowly accepts it. 

“Artists being wrong.” Cas takes a bite, smiles a little bit. “This is quite good. I was...created to be a host of Heaven, a soldier, a rule-follower.”

“But you’re not,” Dean says in a slightly teasing tone before taking a bite of the chocolate himself. The music from whatever is playing swells. Cas is right--this is good. 

“Because I was made broken.” Cas sighs. “You heard Chuck--I have a crack in my chassis. I never listen to orders. He was wrong about me.”

“Nah.” Dean finds Cas’s hand that isn’t occupied with chocolate and takes it in his own. “That crack was a good thing. Didn’t he also say that this was the only universe where you were like that? You saved the day.”

“I tried,” Cas says. His eyes focus on the television screen. “I like this.” “What is it, anyways?” Dean rolls over so he’s not facing Cas anymore, instead tucked up against him like they’re spooning. The screen has dancing mushrooms on it.

“Disney’s _Fantasia._ Animated classical music. It seemed nice.” Cas pauses. “It’s very soothing.”

“That’s good.”

They watch all of _Fantasia_ together--the dancing mushrooms fade away, and then there's Mickey Mouse with a magical broom flooding a sorcerer’s workshop, and centaurs, and pegasi, and more colors and music. Cas skips lunch but does eat dinner, and he lets Dean prod him into the shower. 

As they drift off to sleep at the end of the day, Cas soft and pliable, tucked against him, Dean knows that he will gladly spend the rest of his life telling Cas that they are all broken in some way--but that they’re also all better for it.


	47. a love that's meant for me

It all started because of a dog.

To be more accurate, it started because of a dog and a former angel of the lord and a three-year-old who was also God, but when Dean had tried to blame Cas and Jack, he’d gotten a couple of dirty looks. Miracle, however, was a dog, unable to give effective dirty looks--and she couldn’t kick Dean out of his own bed like Cas could.

Dean and Cas had gone on the weekly grocery run, and had decided to go to Walmart just to get some last-minute Christmas presents. Dean hadn’t expected Walmart to be a religious experience for Cas, but he supposed that when your ass had just been yanked out of the Empty, everything was awesome.

Cas had gotten it into his head that they all needed matching sweaters, and _then_ he had seen that dog sweaters were a thing, and Dean was sorta-kinda powerless to tell Cas _no_ (no, Sam, he wasn’t whipped), so they’d left the store with red snowflake patterned sweaters for everyone, even Miracle.

(Then Cas got into the idea of properly celebrating Christmas--the only thing they weren’t doing was going to church.)

So now Dean was in the war room, looking up at a massive Christmas tree that they had just dragged inside, off the back of Cas’s truck.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again,” Dean said, turning from the tree to the tangled pile of tinsel on the table.

“Because you love me,” Cas replied, with complete ease and confidence. He was sitting on the floor next to the tree, detangling lights. Jack was on the other side of the war room with some boxes of ornaments.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Cas beamed at Dean. “I never will.”

It hit Dean sort of like a truck, because he _got_ it. He was never going to be used to Cas loving him, either. It felt like the best night out, a smooth ride in a classic car, the nicest aged whiskey, a bacon cheeseburger...but also, it felt small and simple and happy. Cas was in snowman-patterned pajamas, and his hair was salt-n-pepper because he was human now and aging, and his blue eyes were warm with mirth and--

“Dean?” Jack asked.

“What, kiddo?”

“Angel or star for the top of the tree?”

“Oh, definitely the angel,” Dean said, and Cas grinned again.

\------------------

“We have to have pie,” Dean said, “It’s _Christmas_.”

“Dean,” Sam said, “You always think we should have pie.”

“And?” Dean turned back to the cookbook he was looking at. They were all in the kitchen now, with Cas and Jack making hot chocolate while Sam humored Dean. “Apple and pumpkin are a must.”

“Cherry?” Cas offered, smiling at Dean.

“Key lime!” Jack said, adding at least half a bag of marshmallows to his hot chocolate.

“Wrong time of year, kiddo,” Dean said, “Maybe for the Fourth of July.”

“Pecan?” Sam said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“You just want an excuse to make four pies.”

“No, Sam, I want an excuse to _eat_ four pies.”

\------------------

Despite the Christmas cheer that permeated the bunker, Dean still felt a little bit off-center. It had been a hard year--hell, it had been a hard forty or so years before now, when they were finally getting peace. He had Cas, and Sam had Eileen, and all together they had _family_ \--Jack and Miracle, and then Jody and Donna with the rest of the girls, too, people who were coming over for New Year’s.

But Dean was uneven. He secretly wondered when all of this would be taken from him, when he would wake up and find that the warm body next to him wasn’t Cas but just his imagination.

So far, it hadn’t happened. So far, Cas was still a solid weight, arms wrapped around him. Cas was both terrible and wonderful to share a bed with--he was gloriously warm, almost like a heater, and loved to cuddle, but he also hogged blankets and moved around a lot. Dean woke up every morning with their floor covered in pillows.

Christmas Eve was no exception. Dean awoke to Cas shifting, pillowing his head on Dean’s chest. Cas’s arms wrapped around Dean, and he sighed contentedly in his sleep, fully relaxing his weight onto Dean.

“Cas, wake up.” Dean used his free hand, the one not currently smothered by the weight of a former angel, to shake Cas’s shoulder.

“Mmmph.”

“ _Cas_.”

Cas shifted, looked up at Dean blearily. “What do you want, Dean?”

“Okay, grumpy. I just wanted you to stop cutting off my circulation.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. You have to be nice to me.” Cas did roll off of him, though.

“How do you figure that?”

“I used to be an angel. Christmas is Jesus’ birthday.” Cas grinned lazily at Dean, a shit-eating grin if Dean had ever seen one.

“Oh, fuck off.” But Dean took Cas’s hand, intertwining their fingers and drawing them up to kiss Cas’s knuckles. “What do you want to do today?”

“Pancakes.”

“Fine, but you have to help.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cas snuggled close to him again. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

“No shit. There was another person stealing all the blankets.”

Cas ignored the jibe. “You had a nightmare.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me, Cas.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that, right?” Cas was propped up on an elbow now, staring at Dean, his gaze bright and warm.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean pulled him down to kiss him and tangle his fingers in Cas’s slowly greying hair, “Let’s go make those pancakes.”

\------------------

“These don’t look like angels at all,” Jack said, glancing at Dean.

“I know, kiddo. Not the point. They’re just supposed to be fun.”

Cas stopped moving his arms--he was still lying on the ground, making his snow angel--to say, “This is cold.” “Then get up.” Dean offered a hand to pull Cas up.

“Can we have hot chocolate when we get inside?” Jack asked hopefully.

“Actually, I was thinking warm apple cider today. Don’t ruin your sweet tooth before cookies later.” Dean beckoned Cas and Jack to follow him inside, where Eileen and Sam were hanging up tinsel in the library. They made a bee-line for the kitchen, though, in search of warm drinks.

“Didn’t realize you’d be the practical dad,” Cas whispered, his chin nearly on Dean’s shoulder as he heated up the cider on the stove.

“Really, _I_ just wanted apple cider. And I don’t think Jack’s ever had any.” Dean turned his head slightly to press a kiss to Cas’s cheek.

“What a Samaritan.”

“I try.”

\------------------

The rest of Christmas Eve passed in the same lazy manner--making gingerbread, making a mess decorating gingerbread, drinking more cider, watching _Christmas Vacation_ in the Dean Cave (starting with a quick debate about whether Jack was allowed to watch the infamous pool scene or not), and then, finally, going to sleep.

“You know the best thing about our kid being God?” Dean asked as he lay in bed, watching Cas put on his pajamas.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have to do Santa.”

“Fair.” Cas let out a laugh, “Did you ever do Santa as a kid?”

“When Mom was alive.” Dean rolled to stare at the ceiling. “Besides that one time with that wood nymph--this is the first _real_ Christmas I’ve had in...a long time.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Cas climbed into bed next to Dean as he spoke, “This is my very first Christmas.” His lips tickled Dean’s ear.

“You always make me feel better. Turn off the lamp, will you?”

Cas rolled over sideways and switched the lamp off before letting himself be pulled back into Dean’s arms. “Is it after midnight?” Cas asked.

“I think so, yeah. Why?”

“I wanted to make sure it was Christmas.” Cas’s hand found Dean’s cheek in the dark. “Can I give you your present now?”

“Uh…” Dean swallowed thickly. “Do you want the lights back on?”

“No, this is fine.” Cas took a pause and then started speaking again, faster this time, like he was nervous. “You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to, I get it if you’d rather not do something like this, but--”

“Are you trying to ask me on a date, angel?”

“No, I’m asking you to marry me.”

Dean didn’t answer--not out loud, anyways. There weren’t any words adequate enough for the swelling feeling inside his chest, so instead he found Cas’s mouth in the dark, kissing him clumsily and off-center.

“Is that a yes?” Cas murmured against his lips.

“What else would I say?”

Cas huffed out a laugh. “For the record, I did get a ring. It’s just in the dresser and I didn’t feel like getting up again. I was...actually going to ask tomorrow morning.”

“Why the change of plan?” Dean’s thumbs were now tracing along Cas’s collarbones.

“I just...saw you lying there, talking about Jack, and I didn’t want to wait.”

“We did twelve years of waiting, I think it’s okay to speed things up now.”

\------------------

(Christmas set the standard for the ones to follow. Eileen had hung mistletoe over half the doorways in the bunker, which meant Sam was blushing crimson for most of the day. Jack loved being introduced to cinnamon rolls--especially the icing. 

And Dean?

Dean loved being with his family.

And being engaged. Now that one _really_ took Sam out.)


	48. Peace

**_Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.” (Luke 2:9-10)_ **

Dean remembers, with startling clarity (how could he not, though? How could he not remember one of the most important nights of his life?), when he met Cas. No, at that point, Cas was _Castiel,_ a genuine Angel of the Lord, all staticky energy and a smirk that could have cut glass.

It didn’t take long, though, for him to become Cas, and then for him to become _everything_ \--Dean’s not sure he could pinpoint the exact moment, but it’s somewhere between Cas pressing a bloody sigil in the Green Room and Dean telling him that he “hadn’t laughed that hard in years.”

It all feels like so long ago now, when Cas’s face was still smooth and young (when all of them were still smooth and young) and the worst thing that had happened to Dean was going to hell. 

They’ve all aged, and it feels _good_ to be in his forties and still kicking. Cas isn’t an angel anymore, he’s human now, and he’s standing across the room from Dean, in a pair of well-fitting jeans, slipper socks with penguins on them, and a blue cable-knit sweater, icing cookies with the sort of concentration he used to apply to ganking their adversaries. 

It’s been a good day--it started with a lazy morning in bed (after about half an hour of making out, Cas demanded coffee and Dean got evicted from their bed to make said coffee), followed by making the cookie dough (gingerbread, of course) with Jack, and now Sam and Jack are outside with Eileen, making snowmen, while Cas ices cookies and Dean--Dean is supposed to be making hot chocolate and doing last-minute Christmas wrapping, but instead he’s just watching Cas. 

Cas is humming something, probably _Last Christmas_ (he and Jack have gotten into eighties music in a big, scary way that’s only excusable because Cas is the love of his life and Jack is his kid), and piping eyes onto the gingerbread men now. He glances up at Dean, a small, soft smile on his face, and Dean is suddenly conscious of how much _time_ they’ve been blessed with. They’re gonna grow old and make dozens, hundreds of memories like this, and they’re all gonna be so _goddamn precious_.

It doesn’t matter what he gets for Christmas--he’s already got the best gift of all: the chance to finally live a happy life. 

Peace.


	49. i'm alright if you're alright

It’s not unusual, this feeling. Unwelcome, yes, but not unusual.

Cas has gotten used to it, the languid stretches of time in the night while he’s simply, mercifully, _awake_. One would think that, after years of being conscious at all hours, a few dawns that he’s awake for wouldn’t be such a problem.

But it’s different now, despite how regular it is. Cas is human, he needs the rest, but his mind can’t. Sometimes it races with anxieties that he’s still working on, other times it’s nightmares.

Tonight it’s both.

He finally drifted off at two in the morning, long after Dean had dropped off. A nightmare had woken Cas up not even an hour later. Normally, he stares at the ceiling or closes his eyes and wills himself to slip out of consciousness again, but tonight he turns his head to look at Dean. 

Dean’s let his hair get longer--it almost flops now, mussed up by the pillows. His freckles are strewn across his cheeks, his chest rising and falling slowly. He shifts a little bit, lets a noise that’s not quite a snore, and Cas keeps watching. 

This is different from when he was still an angel and he would watch over Dean. Then, he wasn’t supposed to look. Now...saying that he’s _allowed_ is the wrong word. Now, he doesn’t have to _stop_ looking. He can map out Dean’s jaw, the slope of Dean’s nose, the hollow of Dean’s neck with his eyes forever. 

“Heya, angel.”

Cas is jolted out of his thoughts by Dean now blinking sleepily at him. There’s a small smile on Dean’s face. 

“Couldn't sleep?” Dean asks. Cas shakes his head, and Dean’s eyes turn sad, his hand reaching out to fit over Cas’s cheek. “Wanna talk about it?”

Cas usually doesn’t, because it’s all the bad stuff that keeps him awake--Dean’s bloody face in a crypt, him asking Dean to stop before Dean almost stabs him in the face, losing Jack, the Empty, and then some, all in a loop. Tonight, though, Cas nods and then clears his throat before asking, “Are there things that you regret?”

“Oh, always. Since I was a kid.” Dean’s smile turns down at the edges. “Some of it, though, was stuff I wasn’t supposed to regret, y’know? I was just told that I was. Like it was my fault that hunting got the car dirty, or I had to do stuff I didn’t want to just so Sammy could eat, or that I was just a kid who couldn't always get it right. But I learned as I got older...not everything is my fault.”

“Hmm.” Cas finds Dean’s other hand with his own. “I think you’re still learning.”

“At least I’m trying.” Dean squeezes Cas’s hand. “Why’re you asking?”

“There are so many things I’ve done...that I could have prevented. I hurt people. I hurt _you_ , Dean.” Cas can tell that his voice is falling on the bad side of earnest. 

“And I hurt you, too. You gotta learn to forgive yourself.”

“Have you forgiven yourself?”

Dean shakes his head, laughs softly, tips their foreheads together. “Nope. But just like I’m learning, I’m trying. And I think you can, too.”

“We’re in this together, huh?” 

“When aren't we?” Dean presses a kiss to Cas’s cheek, and Cas chases it to Dean’s mouth, until their lips brush together. It’s a featherlight kiss, but Cas knows that they’ve got the rest of a lifetime to get all of this right. 

Dean pulls Cas into his arms, and Cas tucks his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, and there’s Dean’s foot on his calf, and then Dean’s breathing gets slow and even again, but this time, Cas isn’t far behind. 


	50. Dancing in the Dark

Dean finds Cas laying on his bed like a starfish, his eyes closed and two earbuds in. He’s not asleep though–his breathing isn’t deep or slow enough for that. He doesn’t crack open an eyelid until Dean shoves one of his arms to make him give Dean space.

Cas’s room isn’t a place Dean goes a lot–he and Cas hang out in other parts of the bunker, like the kitchen, brushing against each other accidentally as they cook, or the library, doing research, or in the Deancave, sharing a bowl of popcorn over one of Dean’s westerns.

Dean flops on the bed next to Cas, who wordlessly pulls out an earbud and offers it to Dean. He takes it and listens to the end of Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days”– _well they’ll pass you by, glory days in the wink of a young girl’s eye, glory days, glory days–_ and cycle into “Dancing in the Dark.” When Dean looks over at Cas, Cas’s eyes have slid shut again.

_I get up in the evening  
_ _And I ain’t got nothing to say  
_ _I come home in the morning  
I go to bed feeling the same way   
I ain’t nothing but tired   
Man I’m just tired and bored with myself   
Hey there baby, I could use just a little help_

They keep doing this thing where they don’t _talk_ about any of it–they just exist in each other’s periphery, bumping together throughout their daily lives. Cas will come into the kitchen in the morning with a smear of toothpaste on his cheek, Dean will wipe it off and pour the former angel a cup of coffee. 

_You can’t start a fire You can’t start a fire without a spark This gun’s for hire Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_

They go on hunts, like always–it’s a part of Dean’s DNA at this point, he’s pretty sure–but every time Cas gets hurt, twists his wrist or scrapes his knuckles or falls wrong and gouges out part of his knee (that’s gonna leave a scar), Dean feels like his heart’s gonna break. They just got home from a hunt, actually–the thick white bandage across Cas’s cheek is a stark reminder of that. 

_Messages keep getting clearer  
Radio’s on and I’m moving ‘round my place   
I check my look in the mirror   
Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face   
Man I ain’t getting nowhere I’m just living in a dump like this   
There’s something happening somewhere   
Baby I just know there is_

“Cas,” Dean says over the guitar and synth and drums and the sweet sounds of Springsteen’s voice pulsing through the earbuds.

“Hm?” Cas doesn’t open his eyes, but he does turn his head towards Dean, and Dean is struck by a sudden urge to press kisses over his eyelids, on his nose, his cheeks. 

“You okay?”

_Can’t start a fire  
You can’t start a fire without a spark   
This gun’s for hire   
Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_

“Mmm-hmm.” _Now_ Cas opens his eyes. “Are you?”

“Yep.”

“Liar.” There’s no spite in Cas’s tone, though, just honesty, because Cas knows, doesn’t he? How could he not, with how Dean’s voice cracked earlier today when he ran to Cas’s fallen body and cradled the angel’s (not an angel, always an angel, always _his_ angel) bleeding face in his dirty palms? 

_You sit around getting older  
There’s a joke, here somewhere and it’s on me   
I shake this world off my shoulders   
Come on baby the laugh’s on me_

”I worry about you,” Dean says. The admission tastes like sawdust, renders his mouth dry and his chest tight. “I need you to–stay safe. Be careful.”

“I’m still alive,” Cas replies.

Dean reaches up to touch the bandage on Cas’s cheek. 

_Stay on the streets of this town_   
_And they’ll be carving you up alright_   
_They say you gotta stay hungry_   
_Hey baby I’m just about starving tonight_   
_I’m dying for some action_   
_I’m sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book_   
_I need a love reaction_   
_Come on now baby gimme just one look_

“I’m still alive,” Cas repeats, following it with, “We’re still alive,” and placing his hand on top of Dean’s. He intertwines their fingers, pulls their hands off his cheek, drags them to his mouth, kisses Dean’s knuckles. 

Dean lets himself be held.

_Can’t start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart_   
_This gun’s for hire  
_ _Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_   
_You can’t start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart_   
_This gun’s for hire_   
_Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_   
_Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_   
_Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_   
_Even if we’re just dancing in the dark_


	51. speak to your heart in silence upon your bed

Angels are masses of incomprehensible size, being, and meaning. Cas once said his true form was “approximately the size of your Chrysler Building,” but as Dean never saw it, he could never really appreciate that Cas wasn’t really Cas but _Castiel,_ a wavelength of celestial intent, whatever that meant. Built by God, chosen by God–until he wasn’t.

Until he’s human, lying in Dean’s bed, staring at Dean as Dean puts on his pajamas. 

Dean’s not used to an audience as he strips, but Cas’s eyes, bluer than blue, have pried him open before. Cas’s gaze is open, soft, unguarded. It looks like Cas thinks he’s _safe,_ here on Dean’s beloved memory foam as Dean peels off his jeans and pulls on a pair of gym shorts over his boxers. There’s no sheet on top of Cas–it’s summer, warm, and it’s been kicked away. 

“What did you do today?” Cas asks. It’s the first word he’s spoken in the ten minutes since they told Sam goodnight and headed to Dean’s room. 

“Nothing much,” Dean grunts, fighting with his t-shirt, “You?”

“Did some reading.”

“Don’t you know everything already?” The shirt’s off now, and Dean goes rummaging through his drawer for a different one to sleep in. 

“It’s interesting to read things from a human perspective. Especially religious texts. As a former angel…” Cas trails off before he picks up the thread again. “It’s intriguing. To truly see how humanity thinks.”

“Humanity. Right.”

“ _Dean._ ” Cas’s voice is warm, not accusatory. “It’s not your fault.”

“Never said it was.”

“But you _feel_ like it is. This was a choice, Dean. A choice _I_ made. For myself.”

“But don’t you ever…” Dean sits on the edge of the bed. “Don’t you ever regret it?”

“No.” Cas’s hand reaches up, his fingers brush Dean’s shoulder. “Never.”

“Want me to turn off the lights?”

“Please.”

Dean turns off the lights and climbs into bed. Cas doesn’t move, just continues laying on his back with his head flopped over in Dean’s direction. 

“You should go to sleep, Dean.” 

“Yeah.”

Cas’s hand finds his, his fingers careful but firm as they intertwine with his own. Dean breathes out slowly, then inhales again. 

“You know,” Cas whispers, rolling sideways until his head is on Dean’s chest, his lips brushing the fabric of Dean’s shirt as he talks, “I read something today that reminded me of you.”

“In a religious text?” 

“Yes.” There’s a ghost of a smile. “From Psalms. _I lie down in peace; at once I fall asleep; for only you, LORD, make me dwell in safety._ ”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. Rest, Dean. I’ll be here in the morning.” Cas’s arm wraps around Dean, his fingers find Dean’s waist, and Dean believes him. 


End file.
